Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.
A/N:Written for Michy Drarry Shipper for Gift-Giving Extravaganza 2014.
A/N 2: Not set in any particular year, but I'd like to think that they are at least fourteen, perhaps fifteen, in this. Purposely written in present tense. The use of repetition is intentional as well (poetry was my first love in writing; still is. I employ its conventions in prose). Please forgive any errors that this work might contain; I'm trying not to obsess. Thank you
Draco glares at Potter.
He hates him.
Hates his glasses. So stupidly crooked and imperfect. Making the boy's eyes seem much bigger than they really are, like he's a freaking bug.
Hates his green eyes. They remind Draco of his least favorite cousin's cat - had eyes almost that same shade of green - that used to scratch and bite him when he tried to pet it. All he'd wanted to do was make friends.
Hates the stupid scar that was left on Potter's forehead by He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and how Potter always tries to hide it with his overgrown bangs. Hates that Potter calls the megalomaniac by his name, without fear.
Hates Potter's unmanageable hair and how it's always unkempt, making him look like he's just gotten out of bed. Hates that Potter's hair makes him think of bed in the first place, and that thoughts of bed, and Potter, don't end with Potter's perpetually disheveled hair.
He hates that Potter's so fucking self-sacrificial. That he'll jump right into danger if it means that he can help someone else. It's stupid and illogical, and drives Malfoy to distraction.
He hates that Potter chose to side with Weasley that first day, on the steps to the castle. That he didn't take Draco's extended hand. Didn't accept his offer of friendship.
Hates, most of all, how Potter's lips look when he's flushed after any sort of exercise. How plump and ripe they become. How they're almost red with the rush of blood to them. Like he's wearing lipstick.
"You're staring," Goyle whispers, a little too loudly. "At Potter."
The dimwit actually pokes him in the side with an elbow, making Malfoy grunt, and then points at the golden boy (stupid nickname).
As if Draco doesn't know who he's looking at. As if it really matters, because Potter's fucking oblivious. Draco rolls his eyes and shrugs.
"Of course I'm looking, you dolt. It's called glaring." Draco tries to keep his voice casual, his usual sneer where Potter's concerned, firmly in place. Realizes that there is harm in looking when Potter, as though aware of Draco's regard, turns to look at him, and then winks and blows him a kiss.
Draco turns away, hating that he's been caught out by Potter, that the boy is mocking him. He stalks toward the castle, cape billowing in the wind. Ignores Goyle's shout for him to, "Wait up!"
He's seething, seeing Potter's mocking smile, his green eyes locked behind a pair of ridiculous glasses that Draco just wants to pull off Potter's face and stomp on. He hexes a first year who opens his mouth to ask him a question, without even realizing that he's hexed the boy until he's well into the school and heading toward the dungeons.
He's so lost in thoughts of Potter that he doesn't fully understand that he's face-to-face with the boy of his musings until he's crashed into Potter and both of them wind up on the floor, limbs entangled. Draco lands on top of Potter, elbow going into the boy's gut when he tries to free himself. Potter's breath whooshes out of him, tickling Draco's neck.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Potter?" Draco asks, still trying, and failing, to get himself off of the other boy.
Actually, his foot ends up making contact with a decidedly intimate portion of Potter's anatomy. Potter makes a muffled sounding squeak and Draco moves his foot.
"Me? You're the one who collided with me. What are you doing?" Potter asks. He sounds winded and his cheeks are a rosy red, like they are after Quidditch practice.
Draco's breath hitches in his throat and he closes his eyes against an onslaught of sensations that suddenly overtake him. Potter's beneath him, writhing, trying to get free, and all that Draco can think of, with his eyes closed, is how close Potter's lips are to his own. How, if he moved, just a little, their lips would be touching.
It feels like the air around him is alive, like it's causing every hair on his body stand up, making his skin tingle. It's a heady, almost overwhelming sensation, and without conscious thought, Draco opens his eyes and places his hands on either side of Potter's face.
They stare at each other, Potter breathing heavily, eyelids at half mast, glasses askew. Neither of them are struggling anymore.
Draco pulls Potter's glasses off, lays them off to the side. Without them, the boy's eyes are like emeralds. Pure green. Lovely. Mesmerizing.
Potter makes a strangled sort of sound at the back of his throat, and shudders. His eyes are clear, though, and he's not frightened.
Swallowing, Draco licks his lips and then, tentatively, uncertain of the pull that's coming from somewhere behind his belly button, he places his lips on top of Potter's. At first, there's nothing, but then he feels like his lips have been drenched in firewhiskey, and he gasps.
Potter surges upward, chasing after Draco's mouth with teeth and tongue and lips. Fingers dig into Draco's shoulders, pull at his hair, move to fasten themselves to Draco's hips.
Draco opens his mouth to Potter, lets the other boy dominate the kiss that he'd initiated. His own fingers move along Potter's body, work their way up beneath Potter's robe and the overly large shirt that he wears beneath it.
Potter's chest is surprisingly muscular. Smooth. So warm and responsive to Draco's touch - gooseflesh following in the wake of Draco's exploring fingers.
Potter's tongue sparks a magic inside of Draco that he can feel all the way from his mouth down to his toes. It makes his skin feel like it's on fire and something deep inside of Draco longs and aches for more.
And he hates it, hates his body's drunken response to Potter's lips and tongue. Hates the taste of the other boy - the salty sweet amalgamation of flavors that spill across his tongue.
Hates the needy little sounds that Potter makes which mirror his own. The desperate quality of their breathless pants and moans that echo in the empty corridor. Hates that, when the kiss is over, he's going to have to walk away, maybe even curse Potter, and pretend like it never happened in the first place, because it can never happen again.
When the kiss finally ends (much too soon), Potters' eyes are glassy green, the pupils wide, black holes that Draco fears he'll get lost in if he doesn't look away. There's a whole universe in Potter's eyes, and the longer that Draco looks into them, the more he sees - like the Mirror of Erised that he's heard about - himself, cheeks flushed, lips plump and burning reflected in Potter's eyes.
They're both struggling to breathe, breaths coming in short, ragged gasps. "Malfoy," Potter's voice is a hushed whisper. "Do you mind?"
Draco blinks and he finally manages to get his body under control, to move so that he's no longer crushing Potter beneath him. Potter scrambles away, though he doesn't go far. He draws his knees up beneath his chin, wraps his arms around them and stares at Draco.
He's shivering, and Draco hates that. Hates that, now that Potter's body is no longer beneath his, pinned to the floor, he's cold, too.
They're both cold, sitting across from each other, shivering in an empty corridor, wands temporarily forgotten by their sides.
Potter reaches for his glasses, clutches them in fingers that shake. He seems to stare at them, unseeing, and Draco watches, dispassionately, as Potter places them on his face, once more hiding his expressive eyes behind walls of glass that obscure them.
They're strangers once again. A wall of concealed hatred between them, thick as Potter's stupid glasses.
They pick up their wands, eye each other warily. Potter nods at him, misery - or what Draco takes for misery - twisting his mouth, making his lips form a thin line of demarcation. Green eyes filled with ill-concealed longing.
Draco fingers his wand, narrows his eyes at Potter, watches the boy collect himself through the fringes of his eyelashes. Potter straightens his robes, clears his throat. His cheeks are still a rosy red, the heat between them very present.
He hates this. Hates how his lips burn in the aftermath of kissing Potter.
Hates that, as he watches Potter leave, all he can think about is when he can next corner Potter in an out of the way corridor and kiss him until he no longer feels anything, like sneaking firewhiskey from his father's bar. Drinking until he's numb and senseless.
He has a feeling that he could drink his fill of Potter and still be left wanting, like some kind of addict, strung out, always looking for more.
Draco glares at Potter's retreating back, gathers his wits together and straightens his robes. He lifts his head, squares his shoulders and fixes the customary smirk on his face. It won't be long before Goyle, or Crabbe happens upon him.
He twirls the wand in his fingers, for a moment considering. He can still see Potter, the boy isn't hurrying, but he's not lingering either. The moment passes, he brings cool fingers to his lips and they burn.
He hates this.
Hates that he wants more.
That he wants Potter.