Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing the characters for my own amusement.
AN: Short, but I hope everyone likes it. Reviews would be lovely. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year everyone.
Warning: mild slash
He was reliving his encounter with the Fiendfyre again. This was one of his regular nightmares, and trapped in the realm of Morpheus, he had no control over the sequences playing out in his mind.
But it was different this time. He could still feel the warmth, but it wasn't agonizing or even terrifying. It was almost comfortable, like the warmth a bonfire would provide in the chill of the wilderness and the night. He wanted to cocoon himself in this warmth, and let it wrap around him.
The monstrous beasts of the curse were also present, but they were muted; everything was muted. Playing out in his peripheral vision, they were all merely a distraction, trying to, but not succeeding to capture his attention.
What scared him was that Potter was the centre of his attention. He stood out like a beacon of hope and spirit, and it seemed that the warmth was radiating out of him.
But Draco held on, despite the fact that it was Potter, despite the fact that he would be indebted to him forever, for letting go meant allowing the fires to roar back to malignance and consume him, letting go meant releasing Potter, his salvation.
It was like a magical photograph, refined and perfected through a series of nightmares, until only the best remained, until only Potter remained and it could no longer be called a nightmare.
He held on tight, and noticed the way Potter's muscles clenched under his hands as he bowed and lifted the broom higher, urging the Firebolt to fly faster.
Somewhere in the depths of his analytical conscience, he knew that the details were real. That the muscles and ridges and planes weren't just a figment of his imagination. That even at the heat of the encounter, his body and mind had subconsciously catalogued every nuance of Potter's body he could touch, and stored it away to be explored later at a more leisurely pace, on in this case, in a dream. Funny how his mind worked when it came to Potter.
He scooted forward, pressing his front to Potter's back, and let the surprisingly soft, albeit slightly charred black hair to whip across his face.
He rested his head on Potter's stiff shoulders and brushed his lips against the sweaty, hot neck, relishing the shiver that coursed through Potter's streamlined body.
He didn't question his actions, but let instincts take over, and surrendered to the inexplicable urge to press even harder.
And that's when he woke up with a jolt, panting as if he had one of his regular nightmares, and not a dream of comfort and closeness.
This dream made him uneasy and anxious, forcing him to question his true feelings towards the Saviour of the Wizarding World. The easy intimacy and virile hunger terrified him, and descending from the shock of the disturbing dream, he realized that he was rock hard. From a pseudo hug.
Cursing under his breath, he gulped down a sleeping potion, refusing to acknowledge his erection or fucked up feelings.