Rating: PG for a wee bit of cussing and much fluff.
Warnings: Fluff, fluff, and more fluff. Takes place post-coital.
Pairing: Harry/Draco, Draco's POV.
Feedback: Would be splendid.
The Boy Who Lived. Who'd have thought that I, Draco Malfoy, of all people, would be sitting here in the dark, cradling Harry Potter's head in my lap after some positively smashing sex? I can't help but marvel at the delicious irony of the situation. Me, a Malfoy. With Potter. I still wonder why I even bother coming to his chamber at night. It isn't as if he's utterly beautiful, with that ink black hair that's forever tousled. It isn't as if the mere sight of those intense green eyes makes me positively randy. It isn't as if that body. all lithe and sculpted from Quidditch, is perfectly formed to my own, not to mentionly absolutely deadly. It isn't as if he's amazing in bed, aye, his cock is good for absolutely fuck-all. In more than one way. This is what I think about while I'm running my fingers through his hair, running them down the side of his face, over his cheekbones, tracing that lovely jawline, those full lips. I lift his hand and press it to my own, palm to palm. My hands are smaller, whiter, more aristocratic, and his are rough, calloused from Quidditch.. his fingernails are bitten to the quick. He's a nervy lad, he is.
I wish I could say it was simple fucking and let that be that. But of course nothing can be that easy, we are dealing with Harry Potter, after all. Even when I'm having sex with him, the boy is still a right pest. In fact, I blame him for all of it. It isn't my fault the boy decided to fail Potions, and it isn't my fault that Snape decided to make me tutor. Snape isn't always the quickest, that one. So Potter and I would meet in the Potions classroom and he'd spill a great lot of crap all over his robes because he's a right disaster and we'd fight. It was interesting. We went from fighting to arguing to bickering good naturedly to tossing around insults only when too much friendliness hung in the air. Almost as if we were friends. One would never admit it to the other, much less to anyone else... things went on normally outside our private lessons.
And the turning point in our "relationship"... hah. What a stupid word. Anyway. I had arrived about fifteen minutes late to the lesson; Potter's knickers were in a twist because it was a Hogsmeade weekend and he wanted to go up to Honeydukes with his disgusting little gang, that Weasley trash and the Mudblood -- anyway. It wasn't as if it was my fault I was late, my father and I had had another row, he'd thrashed me around a good bit and then sent me on my merry sodding way. I remember quite well what happened when I stepped into the classroom. Potter's back was to me.
"Malfoy, you stupid git. You're late."
"Well spotted. Learn to tell time, did you?"
"Shut up. I'm supposed to be at Honeydukes in an hour."
"Bollocks to Honeydukes."
He turned around, exasperated. "Are we going to --" He stopped short. "What happened to your face?"
He'd noticed the split lip, the bruised cheek. Brilliant, he was. "I bit myself shaving."
"You shave?"
"Potter?"
"What?"
"Shut up."
"No, really. What happened to your face?"
"Potter, you git." I'd been too tired to think of a proper lie. "Beating your children, Potter. It's all the rage now, don't you know. Oh, wait. You wouldn't. Your parents are dead. Now where --"
His face tightened -- my comment about his parents pissed him off, as was intended -- but then softened. Damn it. Fool. He got a bit of cloth, wet it with the tip of his wand, crossed the room, pressed it to my mouth.
Of course, then he replaced the cloth with his own mouth.
Don't really remember much after that. Just went on that way. Eventually, I found reason to seek tutoring in Care of Magical Creatures. I'd need to come up to his dormitory, of course.. it was so much more comfortable in his chamber, and there was less noise...it progressed in this manner, i.e. it was easier to study on his bed... I understood the material better when he was shagging me rotten.
This is what I think about while I sit here, running my fingers over his eyebrows, his nose, the transparent skin of his eyelids... brushing my fingertips over the bags beneath his eyes, the full bottom lip... tracing patterns on his muscular chest, stomach. Usually he doesn't wake.. but when he does, his eyes open halfway, he smiles at me fuzzily... wraps a hand round the back of my neck and catches my lips in a kiss. I find an odd comfort in sitting here, cradling his lovely/stupid head in my arms. Makes me feel contemplative, right philosophical, in fact. And I've even reached a few conclusions.
You see, night casts shadows upon people... gives faces new contours, sheds light where there sometimes is none and darkens what is usually light. By day, Harry Potter is a hero -- people worship him simply for living, he's fucking invincible, he is. But night highlights his fragility. Makes the circles beneath his eyes darker, makes his face look older, makes his body more delicate, even in spite of the ropes of muscle that rest beneath that pale skin. Sometimes I hate myself for thinking about him so much, for wasting so much time on him, but other times I remember that it's easier to think about him than it is to think about the future. It's easier to think about the perfect green of his eyes and the imperfect crookedness of his smile than it is to think about whether I'll be able to hold him in four years the way I hold him now.
Not that it matters. Because I don't care about holding him. I don't care about his eyes or his smile. His kisses, his embraces, would be no loss. I wouldn't care. I don't care. Harry Potter means nothing to me. And I do not love him.