----
It was some time later.
It's all gone to hell now, Harry thought, unable to dredge up
any real emotion to go with the words. He was sitting on the
floor of Professor Jimison's classroom, his back against one
of the bookcases, watching the ceiling Inspirations glow like
lightning bugs in the dark. Perhaps Jimison had a deadline
to meet, and that caused the flashing -- he couldn't really
bring himself to care.
His story lay in his lap. Harry felt along it, straightened the
edges, then straightened them again as the pages slipped out
of alignment. He felt the corner of the top page -- he
remembered how carefully he'd handled this sheaf of papers,
making sure not a tear, not a crease formed. He'd wanted it
perfect, in case... in case he ended up giving it to someone
other than the professor.
Perfection.
He could fix that.
The remnants of thirty pages lay heaped in front of Harry,
and he was midway through the thirty-first when a voice
said, "It wasn't that bad, Potter."
Harry looked up. Draco Malfoy stood leaning against the
classroom's doorway, watching as Harry tore his writing
assignment to shreds. Neither of them spoke, but neither
turned his eyes away.
Harry sighed, and started on the thirty-second page. "Take a
seat, Malfoy, unless you've come _just_ to stare at the
Witless Wonder. In which case you can bloody well shove
off."
"No, no... I want to talk to the Witless Wonder, too," said
Malfoy. He walked over to Harry, and sat down a safe meter
away. "After all, it's not every day that the estimable Harry
Potter makes an ass of himself in front of the entire school.
I'm dying to find out why."
"For rank purposes all my own, Malfoy," Harry said. "Have
a page. Rip it in good health." Harry held out the next sheet
of paper from his pile.
Malfoy took it, and read the first few lines. "I rather liked
this scene, actually," he said.
"Which one is it?"
"Where you -- or a character incredibly similar to you --
declare yourself to male persons unknown."
"Ah," said Harry. "_That_ scene. Can't say the audience
liked it much. I seem to remember several gasps and at least
one disgusted shriek."
"Hmm," said Malfoy. Harry looked up, and saw that Malfoy
was reading the rest of the page. After a moment Malfoy
said, "I can't help but wonder what sort of reaction you were
looking for."
You. I was looking at you and you turned away, thought
Harry. Isn't that reaction enough? "Certainly not the one I
received," said Harry. Malfoy looked up sharply at that, and
Harry shrugged and picked up the next sheet of paper.
"Hang on," Malfoy said, and reached out and stopped
Harry's hand mid-rip.
Harry breath hitched -- when had _breathing_ around
Malfoy become difficult? -- and tried to talk around the
metal bands seemingly wrapped around his chest. "What?"
"I... You've got a decent speaking voice, Potter, loathe
though I am to admit it. I'd be interested to hear this section
again."
A very stupid request. Malfoy's hand was still against his
own, still stopping Harry from the act of tearing. "Where
would you like me to start?" Harry said.
Malfoy made as if to pass his page over, but Harry looked
where Malfoy's fingers held the page, and knew. "I wish I
could've told you," Harry said, speaking words he'd read for
the first time less than a day ago -- but it was a memorable
passage. "I wish I could've told you years ago, when I
realized what was happening. I'd watch you enter a room,
and wait for you to find me before I'd turn away. I've
wanted to... just touch your hair, feel the blond strands
between my fingers, see how far I could pull before you
gave up and bared your throat to me."
Malfoy watched him, didn't interrupt. "I wish I could have
told you how often I've just wanted to sit and stare, for
hours, at your eyes, and count those lashes that are too pale
to see from a distance. I wish I could have told you how
wonderful your hands look, and how much I've wanted to
feel them. Anywhere."
Harry slowly withdrew his hand from Malfoy's, and turned
his head to watch the far-off ceiling. He'd reached the end of
the dialogue, but there was still something more that had to
be said. Maybe something better than what the Inspiration
had given him.
"I never knew if this was something you wanted too. But
that's no excuse. I should have told you, the moment I knew
I could. And now... now it's too late, you bastard, because
it's all gone to hell. You have no idea what even the thought
of you does to me now. The heavens fall, the rains sweep in,
and what do I do? I float, because I'm thinking about your
whiny voice, your ratty hair, your repulsive beliefs and your
damned ineffective Quidditch maneuvers, and how much I
_want_ you. Because it's all you, even the rat bastard bits,
and I want you."
Dead silence from the Malfoy side of the conversation.
What did I expect? thought Harry, the back cover of a
bloody romance novel?-- Malfoy said, "Let me see if I can
remember the next line."
Harry blinked, started to turn his head. "There was no next
li--"
And the punch came from no where. It hit hard; Harry's
head knocked against the wall from the force of it.
Malfoy had his fist curled around the sheet of paper Harry'd
quoted from. "_That_ is for saying all that syrupy rubbish in
front of the entire school," he said, his voice shaking and
furious. "And for involving _Mary Sue_, of all people, in
this debacle. And, while I'm at it, for six years of pure hell
while I had to watch you being the unbreakable, the
untouchable, the pitiful Harry Potter, a reluctant-but-brave
bastard who gets respect like a dog gets fleas, who saves the
world three times over on a slow day, with a bit of a cold,
mind you; surrounded by your bloody friends, and your
bloody memories, and your complete lack of forgiveness for
the utter idiocy of childhood, I was left to _watch_ all that,
alone -- because damned if I'd come near you without some
respect, and damned if you'd come near me without--"
Malfoy's breathing went ragged. Harry couldn't think what
the last words could be. Without someone shoving me
closer? Without a professor pairing us up? Without him
insulting everything I believe in? Maybe there was a good
reason why Malfoy hadn't finished the sentence. Malfoy
said then, "It took me six bloody years to figure this out,
Potter, and you tried to change it overnight with a _writing
assignment_."
Harry touched his jaw, and winced. "Overnight? Hardly.
This has been at least three days in the making. But honestly
meant anyway. Nothing else, Malfoy? That the end of it?"
Harry said, slowly standing up. "I expect you'll rub this in
for the rest of the year -- the rest of my life... I've stopped
caring. It would seem that since you've made your feelings
on the subject rather clear, the best thing for me to do would
be to clear off... give you a rest from the harrowing
experience of being in my company... the sheer torture that
is me... good God your fist is hard..."
Malfoy stood as well, a bit too fast; he swore as he
stumbled, and his hand reached out and gripped Harry's
shoulder for support. "Wait a moment, Potter," he said, and
then that hand pulled Harry too close, and Malfoy swore
again and kissed him.
It was fast, a brief press of warm flesh against his own;
almost meaningless, really, it went so quickly. Malfoy
pulled back, watched Harry for a moment -- tense, waiting
for a blow.
None came.
Malfoy leaned forward again, slowly, and this time the
contact was longer. Harry's lips tingled from the pressure, so
he opened his mouth, a little, a little... Malfoy inhaled
sharply, pulled back, asked, "Isn't this the part where you try
and fend me off?" His eyes darted up to Harry's for a
moment, then down again, and this time he didn't bother
with a slow approach, but caught Harry's mouth and there
was a strange tug, taste, as Malfoy moved his mouth against
Harry's, and then, then he felt the wet heat of Malfoy's
tongue, touching... _hell_.
"Call for help?" Malfoy asked hoarsely. Malfoy's grip on his
shoulder loosened, and his fingertips pulled along the cloth
of Harry's shirt, up to his jaw, and he lightly caressed the
bruise forming there. Malfoy kissed him again, and this felt
different from every other kiss he'd ever had, warmth that
was Harry's, all Harry's, and he'd never give this up, he
couldn't, and if Malfoy pulled away _one more time_--
Malfoy stopped, exhaled, made a move to step away, but
seemed to rethink it -- he instead pushed Harry away, back
against the wall, but kept one hand on Harry's shoulder. He
studied Harry's face. "Potter," Malfoy whispered, "isn't this
the part when you kick me in the bag and make a run for it?"
God, those eyes. Harry reached up and took off his glasses.
"No," Harry said, "this is the part where you stop talking."
And when Harry kissed Malfoy, neither man pulled away.
----
(cont. in 7/7)
It was some time later.
It's all gone to hell now, Harry thought, unable to dredge up
any real emotion to go with the words. He was sitting on the
floor of Professor Jimison's classroom, his back against one
of the bookcases, watching the ceiling Inspirations glow like
lightning bugs in the dark. Perhaps Jimison had a deadline
to meet, and that caused the flashing -- he couldn't really
bring himself to care.
His story lay in his lap. Harry felt along it, straightened the
edges, then straightened them again as the pages slipped out
of alignment. He felt the corner of the top page -- he
remembered how carefully he'd handled this sheaf of papers,
making sure not a tear, not a crease formed. He'd wanted it
perfect, in case... in case he ended up giving it to someone
other than the professor.
Perfection.
He could fix that.
The remnants of thirty pages lay heaped in front of Harry,
and he was midway through the thirty-first when a voice
said, "It wasn't that bad, Potter."
Harry looked up. Draco Malfoy stood leaning against the
classroom's doorway, watching as Harry tore his writing
assignment to shreds. Neither of them spoke, but neither
turned his eyes away.
Harry sighed, and started on the thirty-second page. "Take a
seat, Malfoy, unless you've come _just_ to stare at the
Witless Wonder. In which case you can bloody well shove
off."
"No, no... I want to talk to the Witless Wonder, too," said
Malfoy. He walked over to Harry, and sat down a safe meter
away. "After all, it's not every day that the estimable Harry
Potter makes an ass of himself in front of the entire school.
I'm dying to find out why."
"For rank purposes all my own, Malfoy," Harry said. "Have
a page. Rip it in good health." Harry held out the next sheet
of paper from his pile.
Malfoy took it, and read the first few lines. "I rather liked
this scene, actually," he said.
"Which one is it?"
"Where you -- or a character incredibly similar to you --
declare yourself to male persons unknown."
"Ah," said Harry. "_That_ scene. Can't say the audience
liked it much. I seem to remember several gasps and at least
one disgusted shriek."
"Hmm," said Malfoy. Harry looked up, and saw that Malfoy
was reading the rest of the page. After a moment Malfoy
said, "I can't help but wonder what sort of reaction you were
looking for."
You. I was looking at you and you turned away, thought
Harry. Isn't that reaction enough? "Certainly not the one I
received," said Harry. Malfoy looked up sharply at that, and
Harry shrugged and picked up the next sheet of paper.
"Hang on," Malfoy said, and reached out and stopped
Harry's hand mid-rip.
Harry breath hitched -- when had _breathing_ around
Malfoy become difficult? -- and tried to talk around the
metal bands seemingly wrapped around his chest. "What?"
"I... You've got a decent speaking voice, Potter, loathe
though I am to admit it. I'd be interested to hear this section
again."
A very stupid request. Malfoy's hand was still against his
own, still stopping Harry from the act of tearing. "Where
would you like me to start?" Harry said.
Malfoy made as if to pass his page over, but Harry looked
where Malfoy's fingers held the page, and knew. "I wish I
could've told you," Harry said, speaking words he'd read for
the first time less than a day ago -- but it was a memorable
passage. "I wish I could've told you years ago, when I
realized what was happening. I'd watch you enter a room,
and wait for you to find me before I'd turn away. I've
wanted to... just touch your hair, feel the blond strands
between my fingers, see how far I could pull before you
gave up and bared your throat to me."
Malfoy watched him, didn't interrupt. "I wish I could have
told you how often I've just wanted to sit and stare, for
hours, at your eyes, and count those lashes that are too pale
to see from a distance. I wish I could have told you how
wonderful your hands look, and how much I've wanted to
feel them. Anywhere."
Harry slowly withdrew his hand from Malfoy's, and turned
his head to watch the far-off ceiling. He'd reached the end of
the dialogue, but there was still something more that had to
be said. Maybe something better than what the Inspiration
had given him.
"I never knew if this was something you wanted too. But
that's no excuse. I should have told you, the moment I knew
I could. And now... now it's too late, you bastard, because
it's all gone to hell. You have no idea what even the thought
of you does to me now. The heavens fall, the rains sweep in,
and what do I do? I float, because I'm thinking about your
whiny voice, your ratty hair, your repulsive beliefs and your
damned ineffective Quidditch maneuvers, and how much I
_want_ you. Because it's all you, even the rat bastard bits,
and I want you."
Dead silence from the Malfoy side of the conversation.
What did I expect? thought Harry, the back cover of a
bloody romance novel?-- Malfoy said, "Let me see if I can
remember the next line."
Harry blinked, started to turn his head. "There was no next
li--"
And the punch came from no where. It hit hard; Harry's
head knocked against the wall from the force of it.
Malfoy had his fist curled around the sheet of paper Harry'd
quoted from. "_That_ is for saying all that syrupy rubbish in
front of the entire school," he said, his voice shaking and
furious. "And for involving _Mary Sue_, of all people, in
this debacle. And, while I'm at it, for six years of pure hell
while I had to watch you being the unbreakable, the
untouchable, the pitiful Harry Potter, a reluctant-but-brave
bastard who gets respect like a dog gets fleas, who saves the
world three times over on a slow day, with a bit of a cold,
mind you; surrounded by your bloody friends, and your
bloody memories, and your complete lack of forgiveness for
the utter idiocy of childhood, I was left to _watch_ all that,
alone -- because damned if I'd come near you without some
respect, and damned if you'd come near me without--"
Malfoy's breathing went ragged. Harry couldn't think what
the last words could be. Without someone shoving me
closer? Without a professor pairing us up? Without him
insulting everything I believe in? Maybe there was a good
reason why Malfoy hadn't finished the sentence. Malfoy
said then, "It took me six bloody years to figure this out,
Potter, and you tried to change it overnight with a _writing
assignment_."
Harry touched his jaw, and winced. "Overnight? Hardly.
This has been at least three days in the making. But honestly
meant anyway. Nothing else, Malfoy? That the end of it?"
Harry said, slowly standing up. "I expect you'll rub this in
for the rest of the year -- the rest of my life... I've stopped
caring. It would seem that since you've made your feelings
on the subject rather clear, the best thing for me to do would
be to clear off... give you a rest from the harrowing
experience of being in my company... the sheer torture that
is me... good God your fist is hard..."
Malfoy stood as well, a bit too fast; he swore as he
stumbled, and his hand reached out and gripped Harry's
shoulder for support. "Wait a moment, Potter," he said, and
then that hand pulled Harry too close, and Malfoy swore
again and kissed him.
It was fast, a brief press of warm flesh against his own;
almost meaningless, really, it went so quickly. Malfoy
pulled back, watched Harry for a moment -- tense, waiting
for a blow.
None came.
Malfoy leaned forward again, slowly, and this time the
contact was longer. Harry's lips tingled from the pressure, so
he opened his mouth, a little, a little... Malfoy inhaled
sharply, pulled back, asked, "Isn't this the part where you try
and fend me off?" His eyes darted up to Harry's for a
moment, then down again, and this time he didn't bother
with a slow approach, but caught Harry's mouth and there
was a strange tug, taste, as Malfoy moved his mouth against
Harry's, and then, then he felt the wet heat of Malfoy's
tongue, touching... _hell_.
"Call for help?" Malfoy asked hoarsely. Malfoy's grip on his
shoulder loosened, and his fingertips pulled along the cloth
of Harry's shirt, up to his jaw, and he lightly caressed the
bruise forming there. Malfoy kissed him again, and this felt
different from every other kiss he'd ever had, warmth that
was Harry's, all Harry's, and he'd never give this up, he
couldn't, and if Malfoy pulled away _one more time_--
Malfoy stopped, exhaled, made a move to step away, but
seemed to rethink it -- he instead pushed Harry away, back
against the wall, but kept one hand on Harry's shoulder. He
studied Harry's face. "Potter," Malfoy whispered, "isn't this
the part when you kick me in the bag and make a run for it?"
God, those eyes. Harry reached up and took off his glasses.
"No," Harry said, "this is the part where you stop talking."
And when Harry kissed Malfoy, neither man pulled away.
----
(cont. in 7/7)