100 Drabbles for Harry and Draco

Author's Note: Anyone else notice how Beowulf sucks? My English teacher gave me the worst possible prompt ever and it took me for-freaking-ever to write that 4 page paper. Blame her. cowers into the corner Don't hate me because it's so late!

This was so much more sappy and OOC than expected. Don't kill me.

Disclaimer: I don't own, you don't sue.

Pairing: HarryxDraco

Summary: A series of 100 drabbles based on 100 different themes a friend sent me. HarryxDraco fluff.

10:fingertip

My fingertip is soft and supple and so unlike his. I grew up pampered and sheltered in the worst of ways. I was never allowed to work for anything; work is beneath a Malfoy, or so my father says. Even while riding my brooms or doing any necessary labor, my fingers and hands were covered by only the best of dragonhide gloves. Writing was one of the few exceptions, but it was still a task taken delicately, and followed by moisturizing sessions to keep my skin in its natural, pale beauty. A Malfoy always has perfect hands, he says.

Harry always runs his fingers along my back when we sleep together, and I can feel his fingertips graze my skin through the journey. Unlike my own, they are calloused from years of struggling. I can tell by his eyes even though his lips won't open. Every time I ask him about his past, he says they are memories for another day, and a part of me is afraid to wait for that other day. Sometimes I think that all of this Dark Lord business will have him see his end long before his time.

I've heard stories about his home life, something or other about muggle relatives and manual labor. I never listen for very long because what I hear makes me so furious that I can't think straight. During one of those gossiping sessions, I sent a few students to the hospital wing for speaking so lowly of my Harry. Is he not the one who has saved their lives many times before?

I look at my fingertip once more and press it to his lips softly. "Harry," I call gently, "how did your fingertips become so rough?" My ears pick up the faint sound of rain falling outside of the window beside his bed where we are currently curled up together. "Aren't lovers supposed to share memories on rainy days?"

Harry chuckles lightly and snuggles into my neck again, his every breath tickling it there and exploiting my weakness. "I thought lovers shagged on rainy days."

"Not all the time! We have to learn about each other some time. And you keep putting this off." He just shrugs and closes his eyes. I continue on quietly, hoping to win this round, "I want to learn about you, Harry, and all of your secrets. I want to know about who you are and why you are you. Our pasts shape us, and I just want to know what kind of past shaped you into the most amazing person I have ever met."

He sighs and moves to lie down just beside me. "Why do you want to know so badly? It's not all that exciting, you know."

"I don't care how exciting it is. I just want to know, Harry. What if tomorrow never comes? Then how will you feel? How will you feel knowing that your dear boyfriend never really knew anything about your past other than what he learned over the six years of hatred the two of you shared?"

"Alright, alright, if you really want to know, and when you put it that way and all, how can I not tell you?" He shifts his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose and laces his fingers through mine.

Locked cupboards. Bullying cousins. Starvation. Ridicule. Lies. Secrets.

My knuckles are white as I grip his hand and listen to his tale. The gossip wasn't too far off, it seems. But that was his past, and I am his future. A future with me will be hard, no doubt, because things are never simple with backgrounds as contrasting as ours.

I glance down once more at his fingertips as they stroke the back of my hand, and my grip softens. I raise his hand to my lips and kiss each individual fingertip on his hand.

"I want to make your future smooth, Harry, so that you never have to remember the rough fingertips of your past."