Notes, disclaimers, etc.: Proper nouns are JKR's. I would say the plot is mine, but I can't seem to find a plot, so whatever. So quickly, a few random babblings: go read Granitite Stone's stories because she's awesome and writes Eminem slash and I love her writing, and go read Marilyn's because Marilyn is one of the coolest chicks I know. And I'm sorry this took so long. But you know me.
This chapter contains: slashy slash slash, Dean, Harry, memories, French.
Dean's Dialogue: just a few notes… What Dean's musing means is "The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of." So the title of this chapter means "The heart has its reasons." Freely translated. And Dean says "football" but means soccer, not American football. Because that's what they call it in Europe. Or at least that's what they call it in Spain. LOL. Don't yell at me if I'm wrong.
Chapter 16: La Cœur A Ses Raisons
"So… what is it." Dean sits expectantly at the foot of his bed. Folds his legs neatly, scratches his arm, and waits.
He stares blankly. "What is… what?" He thinks Dean is too flexible to be male and narrows his eyes at the ease with which Dean contorts himself.
"Let me guess… you're in love." Dean relishes the word. Winks lustily. Dean doesn't believe in love, but he closes the curtains anyway, because Ron's giving them weird looks.
Okay, so now he's uncomfortable. Shifts a little and shrugs. "Not… not really." He wants to cast a silencing spell around his bed.
Dean just raises his eyebrows.
"I mean… it's not like a 'love' thing." He rushes to explain. "It's just that I like—them—and they like me, well, I think they like me, and it's just kind of a, a, a thing."
Dean clears his throat.
He blinks back, having finished his train of thought. He wonders what Dean is waiting for.
"I hate ambigous pronouns." Dean announces. Looks at him pointedly. "And honestly—dahling—if it's a he, and I'm sure it is, you don't have to be shy about it."
"There's a difference between shy and cautious." He says before he can stop himself.
Dean laughs. "I'm sure there is, sweetheart, but we're not talking about caution, are we?" He grins because he's won and leans forward.
Harry scoots back.
"Don't be self-indulgent." Dean says. "I don't want you, believe me, I've got enough of my own."
They're silent for a moment. Dean contemplating what he should say next. Harry staring furiously at his bedspread, waiting for the threads to fuse together.
On his eyelids: collapsing against Draco's slim frame. Shaking with giggles. Skin as smooth and cool as ice and smelling like milk and lavender. Arms circling around his waist almost against their will and soft lips against the back of his neck.
Harry it's not that funny. Draco's voice snaking through his hair to his ear. It's not that funny Harry Christ.
Yea it is. Laughing so hard he can't breathe. Yea, it is.
"Just to clear things up." Dean says and Harry looks up, guilty. "You haven't by any chance fallen for our favorite redhead have you?"
He rolls his eyes. "I'm not an absolute git." He snaps. "Liking Ron would be moronic."
"And falling in love with Draco Malfoy isn't, I suppose."
He feels the blood draining his from his face. "I'm not—"
"Of course not, sweetheart." Dean says, smiling. "Of course not."
He hides his face in his hands. "It's not my fault." He mumbles. "I didn't… he's not such a terrible person. It's his father. His fucking father. And his mother too. I think anyone could love him if they were around him too long. Or maybe it's that whole… hate isn't the opposite of love thing. Or I don't know. It just happened. I didn't do anything."
Musing: "La cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point."
He hates it when Dean spouts philosophical observations in other languages. "What?" And his voice indicates that he has no interest in hearing another well-worn phrase that Dean thinks pertains to his situation.
"Oh… ah… nothing." Dean says hastily.
On his eyelids: everything muffled by the heavy snowfall. Snowflakes dissolving on his skin, what little of it isn't wrapped in wool and fleece. And Draco, far ahead, melting into the horizon.
"Do you want to play football?" Dean offers finally.
He shakes his head.
"Quidditch, then?" Dean says. Not hopeful. But obligated to offer.
He tries to smile. "No, thanks."
"Do you want to do anything other than mope around the dorm and try to convince yourself you don't want to be with him?" He's impatient but trying not to let on. Dean hates it when Harry mopes.
It's a real smile this time. But tiny. And fast. "I think I'll just sulk for awhile." He says.
Dean shrugs and leaves. He doesn't have to say he'll be here if Harry needs to talk. He doesn't have to say anything.
Harry crawls under his sheets and into the warm haven of bedspreads and fabrics. A soft shield from the cold of winter in a stone castle.
On his eyelids: nearly asleep. Satin and green surrounding him and someone else's heartbeat thudding against his back, through his ribcage. Sleepy questions. Sleepy answers.
Are you going to marry her?
Shifting. Draco pulling him closer and trying to push him away at the same time and finally just settling for one silky arm draped over his bare waist. He can feel breath against the knob at the top of his spine. Warm and moist and terribly real.
Finally: Yes.
He asks another question but only because he knows he won't be awake to hear the answer.