Chapter-1-On a Cold Night Like Tonight: "The Difference"
Disclaimer: JKR owns everything and everyone in the Potterverse. I'm just messing around. For no profit.
Author's Note: Hi there. I'm back. Welcome to the first chapter of "On a Cold Night Like Tonight." The fic is pretty typical TruestBlue (if you know my writing). I'm really trying with the prose, guys. The poetry just keeps coming out. I've got a great little story about Prose writers vs poetry writers. I'll write it in the story, at some point, I think. Or maybe I'll send it to whoever asks. But whatever. Thanks to Black-Eyed-Wicca for being my beta. On with the show!
"It was a schoolboy crush really. When I was young and stupid. You know how it is. Even then, I knew that nothing could come of the Boy-Who-Lived and a Death Eater's son." Harry nods and chews his lip at my confession. Those lips still look the same at 24 as they did at 16; like they're waiting to be kissed.
But when Harry was 16, he wouldn't have walked beside me on a cold night like tonight. He wouldn't have smiled that warm little half smile of his that makes my blood freeze in my veins. 8 years can make a lot of difference in a relationship. In this case, it's the difference between enemies and friends.
I watch as Harry breathes into the air, and sets clouds of condensation around him. He tucks his hands around his perfect body, an attempt to keep them warm, and stares directly into the space in front of him. He never looks at me when we speak. At first I thought it odd, but now I know it's just another 'Harry thing'. I've always wondered about the reason behind it, but never dared to bring it up. There are some things you just don't talk about with Harry Potter.
"Really? Could've fooled me. You seemed intent on making my life hell." He smiles again, and hugs himself tighter. I catch him shivering when he thinks I'm not looking.
It takes me a second to remember our conversation. Sometimes, I get lost in Harry. Avada-green eyes flip up to peer at my face; evaluating my silence, then flutter back down to the concrete. He told me once that our eyes told a sad story, mine of rain and his of death. Green and Grey. I didn't bother to tell him that I thought they were a gorgeous combination. Some days, everything seems like a tragedy to Harry. I suppose eye color is no exception.
"Yes, well," I tell him as if that explains everything. In a way, it does. Silence sits heavy as a rock between us, and just as tangible.
"I liked Seamus for a little while, back in 5th year. Then Dean in 6th. But no one you don't know about after that." He laughs at the memory, and I quiver at the sound. I glance over to see if he's noticed my misstep, but he's looking away like always.
"Finnegan. Really? I'd pegged you as a Diggory-follower." He laughs again, and I hear his teeth chatter. I slip my jacket off and hand it to him. The air is cold, but I don't care. So is Harry.
"Draco, I'm not some girl. You don't need to take care of me!" 'That's not true,' I think, but stay quiet. His eyes shimmer with amusement under the light of the muggle street-lamps.
"Whatever, Potter," I growl in good nature. Harry takes the coat from my hands and wraps it around his shoulders as his flat comes into view.
We stop at his door, and Harry fiddles with his keys. I wait with him for a moment, watching his hands.
"Harry," I say. Maybe this is the time to tell him that my 'schoolboy crush' is really more like 'undying love.'
He looks up, and my breath catches in my throat. Choking on nothing, I look away. I want nothing more than to reach out and pull him to me, and kiss away his worries and pains and struggles. But I won't.
"Nothing, never mind." He sighs a muted sigh and turns to unlock his door. I should be used to my heart breaking on this doorstep, but I'm not. I turn away again to face the cold.
"Draco, you must be out of your mind if you think I'm going to let you walk home, without a jacket in this weather! Come inside and use the floo." I grin at Harry's mother-voice echoing from somewhere in his flat.
"Yes, mommy," I call. I step inside, and close the door behind me.
When Harry Potter is drunk, you can't tell anything is amiss, at first. He's still gentle and quiet, with that velveteen baritone of his washing over the room in waves. I used to close my eyes, and listen to that melodious voice settle over my senses. Until I started listening to what exactly he was saying.
While under the influence, Harry cannot talk for 3 minutes at a time without dropping some form of sexual innuendo. Hermione says it's because he's too bashful to talk about sex when he's in his right mind.
Ron did point out, though, that Harry had no trouble partaking in the activity. Leave it to the Weasel to talk about Harry screwing someone, who isn't me. I always ignore the sympathetic look from Hermione at the suggestion, and the tears pushing against the back of my eyes. If Harry wants to be 'friends,' then he has a 'friend.' It's about time I put someone else before myself, anyway. It won't kill me, even if sometimes it feels like it might.
Even knowing his predisposition to lewd behavior, Harry always offers me a butterbeer when I come inside. I always accept, and he takes one,(or 4),as well. I don't know anyone, if given the chance, who would turn down a smutty Harry. Me least of all.
He hands me the drink, and I roll my eyes. I know he's forgotten all about the floo. I think Harry just doesn't want to be alone, sometimes. Especially at night. We talk more, about his shitty Ministry position. We talk about my not-so-shitty career in journalism. Thirty minutes and 4 drinks later, I see the glaze of alcohol cover his eyes. His smirk becomes slow and sensual, his laugh deep and husky.
I don't know why I torture myself like this.
Harry's bedroom voice has me tight in my trousers and forces my eyes to the floor. He finally passes out, and I sigh in relief. I lift him, bridal style, into my arms. For the savior of the world, he seems so small. Harry's fragile, delicate. He has a beautiful, peaceful nature. During the war he was forced to be strong, tough, and ruthless. Boys like him are meant to love, not kill. I'm surprised his spirit wasn't broken. He often tells me he had to be a different person to kill someone. The Harry I know couldn't have handled it.
I carry him to his room and lay him on his bed. I look at that sweet face, and startle when warm green eyes blink open.
"Awwwwwwwwww, 's my Draco's off and carried me to bed," He slurs in his stupor. Even though I know he won't remember this in the morning, I blush. I pull my hands from him as if burned.
"Draco, you should staaaay! There's a ton of room. Really. There's a lot," Harry pats the bed next to him and looks up at me with those doe-eyes.
"Sorry, Harry. Not so sure I'd like to explain my presence in the morning." I smile and look at the door. I know I should go.
" 'm suuuure I wouldn't mind, Drakie," My eyebrow raises, but he's too drunk to catch a hint. "Come, then, give us a kiss and come to bed."
'I wish.'
"My command!" I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud until Harry's hands wind around my neck and pull me close.
Dunk people are, in general, not able to kiss very well. Or with very much control, for that matter. Harry is the exception to the rule.
A soft gracing from Harry's downy pink lips. He holds my head still, so I can't move. I suppose it's all the better; I wouldn't know whether to push closer or pull away.
People think that 'mellow,' 'sensitive,' and 'smooth' are all submissive traits. But this kiss was all of those things, but I knew every second, I wasn't the one in control. And so did Harry. He brushed his lips across mine, but never once tried to deepen the contact. Thumbing my cheekbones, he sighed and pulled away.
My hand flies to my tingling mouth and I back away from Harry's bedside. For someone so alert only moments before, Harry appears in the deepest of sleeps. I wonder for a moment if I'd imagined the encounter, but the steady swelling of my lips beggs to differ.
Hands still on my face, I stagger from the room to make for Harry's floo. "Home," I tell it. I never know where it will take me, though, when I say that. I used to test it out just for fun: to see where I thought home really was. But a couple times of ending up in Harry's living room put a stop to my antics.
Tonight, though, I end up in my flat as usual. I reach to pull off my coat, but realize it's still over Harry's shoulders. The thought makes me inexplicably sad.
I pull off my shirt and climb into my bed, wishing it were Harry's.
A/N: So? How was the first chapter? Cool? Not so much? Let me know, and drop me a review. I think I'll continiue this if I get 10+ reviews. Thanks for reading.
Have a wonderful day!!!
TB
