Surrendering
By Jillian
(Disclaimer/Author's Notes: Much thanks to everyone who kindly reviewed "Strange Glue," which was quite an experiment for me. As is this. I never intend to make a series out of this, for fear of creating yet another unfinished epic. Nevertheless, a few ideas are still buzzing between my ears, and I figured a few accompanying short stories to compliment "Strange Glue" might be fun to write. Your encouragement certainly tipped the scales. Characters, not mine. Lyrics, from Alanis Morissette's song of the same title. While the prose is Draco's POV, the lyrics are more comparable to Harry's POV. Enjoy.)
***
so you were in but not entirely
you were up for this but not totally
you knew how arms length-ing can maintain doubt
***
Truth. So many versions of truth can cheapen what is real. Then again, what truth is the comfort and surprise of finding Harry Potter on your couch? His dark hair tousled in such a way that it peeked over the armrest. One of his arms thrown up and over his head. The other settled lightly over his stomach where the shirt he was wearing yesterday pulled up. He found a blanket, but it fell in such a way that the corner only covered his knees while the rest spilled onto the floor. Bare feet propped up on the opposite end. On the couch, he looked so long and innocently boyish.
On the couch, because at some point he slipped away from the crook of my arm. Which was also part of the truth.
I sat in the rocking chair, a gift from my grandmother who delighted in decorating whenever someone would let her. Every corner of my apartment displayed her touch. Of course, this chair was made from the finest woods, finished with detailed designs, and as I pushed back with my feet, it made no sound. So many things I have are perfect.
As I watched Harry breathe between his just open lips, my certainty about the truth slipped.
He was never something I needed.
Not that I hadn't found him amusing.
I could play a pretty convincing role to hide my insecurity, but at that time I knew he'd finally found the distance still between us. That was why he was on the couch. Protecting himself. And it was bloody well time that he started, since he spent so much of his time protecting other people. Even, to some small measure, protecting me. Which was damn funny.
Being a Malfoy brought with it certain expectations. We did not appear in public less than perfectly groomed, we did not speak unless with the most proper wit, we did not need protecting because we were impeccably beyond reproach and we did not intimately bond with anyone. Of course, Malfoys are not well-liked but intricately necessary. I remembered my father saying, "There is no need to be a leader, Draco. Choose significance over prominence. What is significant is to become the one person they cannot do without. That is true power. That is how you truly conquer."
So no matter how much he may come to hate you, he'll never be able to let you go.
Which is why Harry stopped at my couch, instead of fleeing to his own bed. I've learned the lesson too well. It's in my blood.
As I rocked, watching him, I couldn't grasp what the pressure in my chest might be called. Disappointment in some measure that my father always had to be right. Harry would never leave and would always be in some measure expecting me, needing me.
The whole truth, however. When I watched his dark lashes flutter then open, the truth was that I feared he might in turn over power me with his significance. Because I had followed him this far, afraid. Afraid when I'd found he had gone from my bed that morning that he might have left completely.
***
you found creative ways to distance
you hid away from much through humor
your choice of armor was your intellect
***
Hermione Granger kindly introduced me to Harry the night that the dean entertained the campus trustees. I had been watching the young soccer captain for a while, however. Representing our class as president inclined me to know all that my peers were accomplishing. Not so much seeking out rivals as evaluating them, learning their weakness and exploiting them to advance myself. I was president because it was infeasible for them to want anyone else in that place.
If I had met Harry before I might have needed to state my authority more directly. It's in Harry Potter's obtuse nature to only recognize threats punctuated with a rolling pin. But the way I found his eyes always following me, lost in thought, unaware if I stared back--I knew that no effort was required.
Harry Potter wanted me because it was, again, infeasible for him to want anyone else.
I accepted his advances, because I was bored. And he was all too willing. Charmingly attractive.
Since it was understood that some power rests in my hands, only the very courageous, very naïve or very stupid move toward me with romantic intentions. Truthfully, I'm uncomfortable with intimacy. This is fortunately a very easy thing to hide when those that approach you are relatively terrified of rejection. Or blissfully content with small things.
Virginia Weasley, for example, entertained me pleasantly enough. Asking only that I smile at her fondly and let her hold my arm for an evening. She also served me as an adequate shield from my preferred dalliances. Consequently, I flirted with her twin brothers or the other fellows who approached me to kill time. But they knew my rules, I did not give any control over to them.
Harry was different.
I remember when he found the courage to wait for me after class. About a week after he'd first confronted me over his concerns for 'Ginny.' When he had first kissed me.
His eyes had difficulty staying in one place, shifting as he stumbled over words haphazardly trying to form sentences. I waited patiently, lifting my eyebrows in amazement at what he was trying not to say and yet desperately trying to get across.
"The soccer match tonight should be rather exciting, not that they stand much of a chance against our team this year," His eyes met mine in a moment of green, and then slowly lowered down my jacket and legs and then to one side. "I heard that you used to play . . ."
I did play soccer once. I loved it. I also knew better than to do anything that I loved.
"Your point, Potter?" I asked impatiently. Smirking in satisfaction as I got him to shift his book bag, replace his weight to the other side. I took a step toward him and noticed the bob of his Adam's apple. Seducing him was all too easy. Every time I saw him, he was asking for me to bring him off. He didn't care where. He didn't care when.
Taking the end of his scarf like a leash, I could lead him anywhere and he'd follow. A hand on his shoulder and I could back him against the bathroom wall without effort. My mouth against him got him to shut up, except for the deep-throated moan when I touched him. He would close his eyes, tilting his chin up and I put my fingers through his hair. Cushioning his head from the cinder block wall as he lost control. Watching as every thoughtless movement I made only seemed to please him more. It was too easy.
Watching as his temperature turned his neck red and his cheeks a pink glow. Feeling his hair knotting into my fingers like live threads threatening to entangle me to him forever. His speechless lips trembling, open.
All because I had my hands on him.
Or would any hands do?
Possessively, I had pressed up against him. Pulling his lower lip with my teeth.
Some of his senses must have returned then, because I had felt him pull his arms away from the wall where he'd pressed his palms for balance. He started kissing back as those arms wrapped around me like chains and his fingers started working underneath the fabric of my shirt as if fixing the lock. Then his touch strayed toward the button of my jeans.
I watched him as his lips formed my name, "Draco." The emotion in his tone unlike any that I'd heard before. He had opened his eyes and caught mine. I pulled back.
"Good luck at the game," I said coolly, heart pounding. Moving away so that he couldn't touch me anymore. Standing tall myself, I took in his breathless condition. His chest heaving in such a way that his shirt fell down to cover the parts of him that I had exposed. I had done that to him. I had caused his every reaction.
But he had done something to me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I actively, purposefully, controlled every step I made of my escape. Pressing my lips together, I appeared collected in the neon light, but an unfamiliar fear lingered in my eyes.
Harry didn't play by rules. He played by feelings.
***
and so you felt and you're still here
and so you died and you're still standing
and so you softened and still safely in command
***
Harry isn't beyond learning rules. He learned them when he wanted to. Soccer, for example. Passion and talent put him above the others, but he fine-tuned his wildness with respect for the game.
I watched him play against opponents that didn't mind skirting the rules or taking advantage by making fouls. Of course, his integrity faithfully took him farther. Each game he won with his pride intact. The poster boy for righteousness. He could boast of being the best within the established guidelines. Although, Harry never boasted.
I used to avoid the campus games, finding them juvenile. Or hating them because it was something I had given up. Watching Harry play was strangely satisfying however. His well placed footing making him look rather graceful on the field as he carried his team from the offensive end. I suppose I wasn't really watching the game as much as the captain. Everyone watched Harry, but I was the only one who knew what else could turn his cheeks as red as when they were wind-burned.
Harry learned that catching me alone typically ended in some sort of sexual satisfaction. He learned that if he wanted to be touched, he only had to come to me and ask. Unearned. Unreciprocated. Which perplexed him to no end.
But while the month passed, I marveled at how he came to me time and again. I gave him nothing that he typically looked for. Friendship he had aplenty. Ron Weasley was around to slap him heartily on the back and boost Harry's masculine ego. Hermione Granger, while her interests obviously leaned toward the red-headed half of their three-some, was never far from giving him intellectual conversation. Beyond their three-some was the endless fraternity of companions, the loyal respect of his teammates, and the earned admiration of the university staff.
As far as finding an outlet for his youthful desires, Harry Potter could have shagged any girl on campus. Or found a number of guys also willing.
I knew from overheard conversation that half of the upperclassmen on the soccer team doubted their steadfast heterosexuality since Harry came on board. I knew with some certainty that the Weasley twins wouldn't have let a practice go without making some overt comment to tease their captain.
I wondered if he accepted my rules to see how far he could get. Trying to mold our encounters so they were fine-tuned like the rules of his beloved soccer. No fouling. Then he'd end the experiment and go back to some docile, frail female thing. Or, if he had half a brain, someone partially endowed with an independent thought and who would really care for him, like Virginia.
I wondered if losing his father at such a young age inclined him to prefer a male lover. Otherwise, I could find no other reason for our recurring rendezvous because, for all intents and purposes, Harry Potter was the most conventional do-gooder I'd ever met.
But Malfoys leave no room for alternatives. He came back to me because I knew that nothing else would satisfy him or his curiosity. Until I finished with him.
***
and so you called and courted fiercely
so you reached out entirely fearless
and yet you knew of reservation and how it serves
***
So the affair continued. At times, I found his behavior comfortably reliable. Other times, irritably inconvenient. We adopted an appearance of indifference, broken only in moments of absolute isolation. Yet, Harry had taken to sitting behind me in class and following me out afterward. Never speaking, but gradually testing the limits of my unspoken boundaries.
I overheard that Harry had asked Ron not to speak of "Draco Malfoy" if all he had to say was insulting. While I had to smirk at the reaction Ron Weasley must have had, I also felt the need to reinforce my personal space. I did not have friends and I did not need them. I fell into my studies. Ignoring the obvious places where Harry might go. Withdrawing from all but the necessary social obligations.
Did wonders for my grade point average.
It was only a matter of time before he found me. When it happened, I was unprepared. Studying in the library basement, the last place one would ever expect Harry Potter. It was so late that even the last of the academically inclined students had left several minutes before. I lifted my eyes to see Harry.
He was watching me with his characteristic ability for not seeing anything. It was how he did most of his studying. Staring, without anything really going in. Not that he was a dullard as much as he was absent-minded. Reflecting on too many things. Hidden intelligence behind a blank stare.
"What do you want, Potter? I'm busy."
"Busy with what?" His hair hid him with initial bashfulness. I was continually surprised by how he slipped from security to insecurity and back again. A natural leader, able to command. And yet, he offered me his hesitancy.
"Ignoring you, in a moment." I waited a heartbeat, then turned back to my studies. Even though I knew he wouldn't leave. He let me appear in control, but his patient assertiveness could unravel my superficial resolve.
"What if I wanted to ravish you across this table?" I hated his enchanting threat to ravish me. If he had truly asked, I was entirely at his mercy.
I knew I had to get rid of him fast and more quickly each time, before he made me want him. Before he made me reveal myself.
But again, he followed my rules. Let me lead.
If he had any idea how much I marvel at his responses. I wanted to sob at how painfully and thoroughly he aroused such a feeling of pleasure in me. Simply by looking at him. Simply by making him happy. How he satisfied me by the way he whispered my name. He didn't even have to touch me to break into my soul.
I couldn't let him touch me. But, for just a moment, I didn't feel as lonely.
I was terrified all the same. "Now let me study," I said, pulling every fiber of resolve from my spirit to keep my voice level. I wiped my hand on his pants to protect myself. I did not care. I couldn't care or I would be lost.
I was in the library. The damn library. And I couldn't refuse him.
I started to pick up the papers we'd scattered off the table in our rush. As I tried to hurry him on his way, tried to protect myself, and, failing in that, tried to keep him from noticing that I wanted him and wanted him to stay.
When I was alone at last, I started to breathe again. I could still smell him. I started to study again but my eyes were swimming over equations that had been wrinkled by what I had done with Harry. I could feel the lingering effect he had on my body. He was everywhere. I collapsed my head into folded arms and stared at the small enclosure of darkness I created on the table. But it wasn't enough to keep from hearing his voice over and over again.
I broke my own rules.
In the difference of a moment, I started throwing things into my bag. Leaving the mountain of books for others to put away, I realized my hands were quivering with the intent behind them. I was going to follow him.
I was going against everything I had built to protect myself. Each staggered footstep resounding into the night as I stepped out into the contrasting chill of the brisk evening. I fumbled for my keys on the way to the parking lot. Hitting the roof of my car so that I could feel the pain in my palm. Momentarily distracting, but not for long. I kept feeling waves of regret. Remembering how I'd given to him, taken from him, over and over again without explaining myself. Without accepting what was the truth. Without being able to tell him, show him, how I felt.
Take a chance. Take a chance.
And while I didn't fear that he'd reject me. I feared what I was willing to lose. In order to keep him for myself. Even if for one night. Not to be alone.
***
and I support you in your trusting
and I commend you for your wisdom
and I'm amazed by your surrender in the face of threatening forces
that I represent
***
His eyes, pale green, watched me as I rocked with the attempt of appearing nonchalant. His stare disarming and familiar, but it was the thought behind it that I waited to hear.
Truthfully, everything in my apartment was perfect. Everything I collected was perfect. Harry, was perfect.
Everything he had done the night before had been perfect.
I was the only one out of sorts. I was the one who collected perfect things to hide inner imperfections. I was the one waiting to hear his first words. To know what I had damaged. What I had lost. Breaking my own rules. Breaking myself.
He sat up, looking away. Unreadable but fluid emotions crossed his features. Small frowns. He rubbed his nose. Glancing around at the unfamiliar setting. Patting the couch with one hand. The blanket fell to the floor completely.
"I-I," His voice cracked for lack of use. Thick with the morning.
I stopped moving. My feet flat on the floor. I was fully dressed. I wondered, while he bashfully glanced at me once then twice, if he was remembering what he'd seen, what he had done when I let him under these clothes. What I had heedlessly said while I tried to memorize his every touch, taste, and expression as if knowing they were the first and the last, while being inevitably lost in them. I wondered if he knew that I hadn't dared to hope that he'd still be there, and when I woke up did he know of my fear when he wasn't.
I wondered if he knew. That he was the one significant thing that I couldn't do without.
I wondered if he knew my silence was because he was the one significant thing that I couldn't ask for.
"Thank you."
I watched his lips form words as if he were speaking a different language. His features, so obviously emotional to everyone else, still seemed a mystery to me. I didn't understand.
"Would you like a shower?" I asked with precise syllables. Dumbly trying to find what to say. Not knowing the rules of this morning after game since he, in this case, was Harry. Which made all the difference.
He pulled out the front of his shirt, then let it settle back.
"I'll take care of that at home, I guess." He stood, the long limbs upright. He looked around for and started collecting the rest of his clothes. The jacket he'd eagerly shrugged off. The shoes that he'd stumbled over in his hurry to my bedroom.
Anything in my apartment that pooled into messiness was his doing from the night before.
"Do you need a ride back?"
"No, I'll walk. It's not far."
His coat put on, and he moved for the door. The silence empty between us. Neither of us saying anything.
I didn't know what to say.
At last, I got up to let him out, but Harry pulled open the door for himself stepping past me. Taking the initiative. Then a peculiar spark seemed to pass between us in his final stare. He lifted one finger to his lips.
"Shh." His voice unexpectedly carefree. A fleeting mischievous smile. "I won't tell."
And then he was gone.
***
self-protection was in times of true danger
your best defense to mistrust and be wary
surrendering a feat of unequalled measure
and I'm trilled to let you in
overjoyed to be let in in kind.
***
By Jillian
(Disclaimer/Author's Notes: Much thanks to everyone who kindly reviewed "Strange Glue," which was quite an experiment for me. As is this. I never intend to make a series out of this, for fear of creating yet another unfinished epic. Nevertheless, a few ideas are still buzzing between my ears, and I figured a few accompanying short stories to compliment "Strange Glue" might be fun to write. Your encouragement certainly tipped the scales. Characters, not mine. Lyrics, from Alanis Morissette's song of the same title. While the prose is Draco's POV, the lyrics are more comparable to Harry's POV. Enjoy.)
***
so you were in but not entirely
you were up for this but not totally
you knew how arms length-ing can maintain doubt
***
Truth. So many versions of truth can cheapen what is real. Then again, what truth is the comfort and surprise of finding Harry Potter on your couch? His dark hair tousled in such a way that it peeked over the armrest. One of his arms thrown up and over his head. The other settled lightly over his stomach where the shirt he was wearing yesterday pulled up. He found a blanket, but it fell in such a way that the corner only covered his knees while the rest spilled onto the floor. Bare feet propped up on the opposite end. On the couch, he looked so long and innocently boyish.
On the couch, because at some point he slipped away from the crook of my arm. Which was also part of the truth.
I sat in the rocking chair, a gift from my grandmother who delighted in decorating whenever someone would let her. Every corner of my apartment displayed her touch. Of course, this chair was made from the finest woods, finished with detailed designs, and as I pushed back with my feet, it made no sound. So many things I have are perfect.
As I watched Harry breathe between his just open lips, my certainty about the truth slipped.
He was never something I needed.
Not that I hadn't found him amusing.
I could play a pretty convincing role to hide my insecurity, but at that time I knew he'd finally found the distance still between us. That was why he was on the couch. Protecting himself. And it was bloody well time that he started, since he spent so much of his time protecting other people. Even, to some small measure, protecting me. Which was damn funny.
Being a Malfoy brought with it certain expectations. We did not appear in public less than perfectly groomed, we did not speak unless with the most proper wit, we did not need protecting because we were impeccably beyond reproach and we did not intimately bond with anyone. Of course, Malfoys are not well-liked but intricately necessary. I remembered my father saying, "There is no need to be a leader, Draco. Choose significance over prominence. What is significant is to become the one person they cannot do without. That is true power. That is how you truly conquer."
So no matter how much he may come to hate you, he'll never be able to let you go.
Which is why Harry stopped at my couch, instead of fleeing to his own bed. I've learned the lesson too well. It's in my blood.
As I rocked, watching him, I couldn't grasp what the pressure in my chest might be called. Disappointment in some measure that my father always had to be right. Harry would never leave and would always be in some measure expecting me, needing me.
The whole truth, however. When I watched his dark lashes flutter then open, the truth was that I feared he might in turn over power me with his significance. Because I had followed him this far, afraid. Afraid when I'd found he had gone from my bed that morning that he might have left completely.
***
you found creative ways to distance
you hid away from much through humor
your choice of armor was your intellect
***
Hermione Granger kindly introduced me to Harry the night that the dean entertained the campus trustees. I had been watching the young soccer captain for a while, however. Representing our class as president inclined me to know all that my peers were accomplishing. Not so much seeking out rivals as evaluating them, learning their weakness and exploiting them to advance myself. I was president because it was infeasible for them to want anyone else in that place.
If I had met Harry before I might have needed to state my authority more directly. It's in Harry Potter's obtuse nature to only recognize threats punctuated with a rolling pin. But the way I found his eyes always following me, lost in thought, unaware if I stared back--I knew that no effort was required.
Harry Potter wanted me because it was, again, infeasible for him to want anyone else.
I accepted his advances, because I was bored. And he was all too willing. Charmingly attractive.
Since it was understood that some power rests in my hands, only the very courageous, very naïve or very stupid move toward me with romantic intentions. Truthfully, I'm uncomfortable with intimacy. This is fortunately a very easy thing to hide when those that approach you are relatively terrified of rejection. Or blissfully content with small things.
Virginia Weasley, for example, entertained me pleasantly enough. Asking only that I smile at her fondly and let her hold my arm for an evening. She also served me as an adequate shield from my preferred dalliances. Consequently, I flirted with her twin brothers or the other fellows who approached me to kill time. But they knew my rules, I did not give any control over to them.
Harry was different.
I remember when he found the courage to wait for me after class. About a week after he'd first confronted me over his concerns for 'Ginny.' When he had first kissed me.
His eyes had difficulty staying in one place, shifting as he stumbled over words haphazardly trying to form sentences. I waited patiently, lifting my eyebrows in amazement at what he was trying not to say and yet desperately trying to get across.
"The soccer match tonight should be rather exciting, not that they stand much of a chance against our team this year," His eyes met mine in a moment of green, and then slowly lowered down my jacket and legs and then to one side. "I heard that you used to play . . ."
I did play soccer once. I loved it. I also knew better than to do anything that I loved.
"Your point, Potter?" I asked impatiently. Smirking in satisfaction as I got him to shift his book bag, replace his weight to the other side. I took a step toward him and noticed the bob of his Adam's apple. Seducing him was all too easy. Every time I saw him, he was asking for me to bring him off. He didn't care where. He didn't care when.
Taking the end of his scarf like a leash, I could lead him anywhere and he'd follow. A hand on his shoulder and I could back him against the bathroom wall without effort. My mouth against him got him to shut up, except for the deep-throated moan when I touched him. He would close his eyes, tilting his chin up and I put my fingers through his hair. Cushioning his head from the cinder block wall as he lost control. Watching as every thoughtless movement I made only seemed to please him more. It was too easy.
Watching as his temperature turned his neck red and his cheeks a pink glow. Feeling his hair knotting into my fingers like live threads threatening to entangle me to him forever. His speechless lips trembling, open.
All because I had my hands on him.
Or would any hands do?
Possessively, I had pressed up against him. Pulling his lower lip with my teeth.
Some of his senses must have returned then, because I had felt him pull his arms away from the wall where he'd pressed his palms for balance. He started kissing back as those arms wrapped around me like chains and his fingers started working underneath the fabric of my shirt as if fixing the lock. Then his touch strayed toward the button of my jeans.
I watched him as his lips formed my name, "Draco." The emotion in his tone unlike any that I'd heard before. He had opened his eyes and caught mine. I pulled back.
"Good luck at the game," I said coolly, heart pounding. Moving away so that he couldn't touch me anymore. Standing tall myself, I took in his breathless condition. His chest heaving in such a way that his shirt fell down to cover the parts of him that I had exposed. I had done that to him. I had caused his every reaction.
But he had done something to me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I actively, purposefully, controlled every step I made of my escape. Pressing my lips together, I appeared collected in the neon light, but an unfamiliar fear lingered in my eyes.
Harry didn't play by rules. He played by feelings.
***
and so you felt and you're still here
and so you died and you're still standing
and so you softened and still safely in command
***
Harry isn't beyond learning rules. He learned them when he wanted to. Soccer, for example. Passion and talent put him above the others, but he fine-tuned his wildness with respect for the game.
I watched him play against opponents that didn't mind skirting the rules or taking advantage by making fouls. Of course, his integrity faithfully took him farther. Each game he won with his pride intact. The poster boy for righteousness. He could boast of being the best within the established guidelines. Although, Harry never boasted.
I used to avoid the campus games, finding them juvenile. Or hating them because it was something I had given up. Watching Harry play was strangely satisfying however. His well placed footing making him look rather graceful on the field as he carried his team from the offensive end. I suppose I wasn't really watching the game as much as the captain. Everyone watched Harry, but I was the only one who knew what else could turn his cheeks as red as when they were wind-burned.
Harry learned that catching me alone typically ended in some sort of sexual satisfaction. He learned that if he wanted to be touched, he only had to come to me and ask. Unearned. Unreciprocated. Which perplexed him to no end.
But while the month passed, I marveled at how he came to me time and again. I gave him nothing that he typically looked for. Friendship he had aplenty. Ron Weasley was around to slap him heartily on the back and boost Harry's masculine ego. Hermione Granger, while her interests obviously leaned toward the red-headed half of their three-some, was never far from giving him intellectual conversation. Beyond their three-some was the endless fraternity of companions, the loyal respect of his teammates, and the earned admiration of the university staff.
As far as finding an outlet for his youthful desires, Harry Potter could have shagged any girl on campus. Or found a number of guys also willing.
I knew from overheard conversation that half of the upperclassmen on the soccer team doubted their steadfast heterosexuality since Harry came on board. I knew with some certainty that the Weasley twins wouldn't have let a practice go without making some overt comment to tease their captain.
I wondered if he accepted my rules to see how far he could get. Trying to mold our encounters so they were fine-tuned like the rules of his beloved soccer. No fouling. Then he'd end the experiment and go back to some docile, frail female thing. Or, if he had half a brain, someone partially endowed with an independent thought and who would really care for him, like Virginia.
I wondered if losing his father at such a young age inclined him to prefer a male lover. Otherwise, I could find no other reason for our recurring rendezvous because, for all intents and purposes, Harry Potter was the most conventional do-gooder I'd ever met.
But Malfoys leave no room for alternatives. He came back to me because I knew that nothing else would satisfy him or his curiosity. Until I finished with him.
***
and so you called and courted fiercely
so you reached out entirely fearless
and yet you knew of reservation and how it serves
***
So the affair continued. At times, I found his behavior comfortably reliable. Other times, irritably inconvenient. We adopted an appearance of indifference, broken only in moments of absolute isolation. Yet, Harry had taken to sitting behind me in class and following me out afterward. Never speaking, but gradually testing the limits of my unspoken boundaries.
I overheard that Harry had asked Ron not to speak of "Draco Malfoy" if all he had to say was insulting. While I had to smirk at the reaction Ron Weasley must have had, I also felt the need to reinforce my personal space. I did not have friends and I did not need them. I fell into my studies. Ignoring the obvious places where Harry might go. Withdrawing from all but the necessary social obligations.
Did wonders for my grade point average.
It was only a matter of time before he found me. When it happened, I was unprepared. Studying in the library basement, the last place one would ever expect Harry Potter. It was so late that even the last of the academically inclined students had left several minutes before. I lifted my eyes to see Harry.
He was watching me with his characteristic ability for not seeing anything. It was how he did most of his studying. Staring, without anything really going in. Not that he was a dullard as much as he was absent-minded. Reflecting on too many things. Hidden intelligence behind a blank stare.
"What do you want, Potter? I'm busy."
"Busy with what?" His hair hid him with initial bashfulness. I was continually surprised by how he slipped from security to insecurity and back again. A natural leader, able to command. And yet, he offered me his hesitancy.
"Ignoring you, in a moment." I waited a heartbeat, then turned back to my studies. Even though I knew he wouldn't leave. He let me appear in control, but his patient assertiveness could unravel my superficial resolve.
"What if I wanted to ravish you across this table?" I hated his enchanting threat to ravish me. If he had truly asked, I was entirely at his mercy.
I knew I had to get rid of him fast and more quickly each time, before he made me want him. Before he made me reveal myself.
But again, he followed my rules. Let me lead.
If he had any idea how much I marvel at his responses. I wanted to sob at how painfully and thoroughly he aroused such a feeling of pleasure in me. Simply by looking at him. Simply by making him happy. How he satisfied me by the way he whispered my name. He didn't even have to touch me to break into my soul.
I couldn't let him touch me. But, for just a moment, I didn't feel as lonely.
I was terrified all the same. "Now let me study," I said, pulling every fiber of resolve from my spirit to keep my voice level. I wiped my hand on his pants to protect myself. I did not care. I couldn't care or I would be lost.
I was in the library. The damn library. And I couldn't refuse him.
I started to pick up the papers we'd scattered off the table in our rush. As I tried to hurry him on his way, tried to protect myself, and, failing in that, tried to keep him from noticing that I wanted him and wanted him to stay.
When I was alone at last, I started to breathe again. I could still smell him. I started to study again but my eyes were swimming over equations that had been wrinkled by what I had done with Harry. I could feel the lingering effect he had on my body. He was everywhere. I collapsed my head into folded arms and stared at the small enclosure of darkness I created on the table. But it wasn't enough to keep from hearing his voice over and over again.
I broke my own rules.
In the difference of a moment, I started throwing things into my bag. Leaving the mountain of books for others to put away, I realized my hands were quivering with the intent behind them. I was going to follow him.
I was going against everything I had built to protect myself. Each staggered footstep resounding into the night as I stepped out into the contrasting chill of the brisk evening. I fumbled for my keys on the way to the parking lot. Hitting the roof of my car so that I could feel the pain in my palm. Momentarily distracting, but not for long. I kept feeling waves of regret. Remembering how I'd given to him, taken from him, over and over again without explaining myself. Without accepting what was the truth. Without being able to tell him, show him, how I felt.
Take a chance. Take a chance.
And while I didn't fear that he'd reject me. I feared what I was willing to lose. In order to keep him for myself. Even if for one night. Not to be alone.
***
and I support you in your trusting
and I commend you for your wisdom
and I'm amazed by your surrender in the face of threatening forces
that I represent
***
His eyes, pale green, watched me as I rocked with the attempt of appearing nonchalant. His stare disarming and familiar, but it was the thought behind it that I waited to hear.
Truthfully, everything in my apartment was perfect. Everything I collected was perfect. Harry, was perfect.
Everything he had done the night before had been perfect.
I was the only one out of sorts. I was the one who collected perfect things to hide inner imperfections. I was the one waiting to hear his first words. To know what I had damaged. What I had lost. Breaking my own rules. Breaking myself.
He sat up, looking away. Unreadable but fluid emotions crossed his features. Small frowns. He rubbed his nose. Glancing around at the unfamiliar setting. Patting the couch with one hand. The blanket fell to the floor completely.
"I-I," His voice cracked for lack of use. Thick with the morning.
I stopped moving. My feet flat on the floor. I was fully dressed. I wondered, while he bashfully glanced at me once then twice, if he was remembering what he'd seen, what he had done when I let him under these clothes. What I had heedlessly said while I tried to memorize his every touch, taste, and expression as if knowing they were the first and the last, while being inevitably lost in them. I wondered if he knew that I hadn't dared to hope that he'd still be there, and when I woke up did he know of my fear when he wasn't.
I wondered if he knew. That he was the one significant thing that I couldn't do without.
I wondered if he knew my silence was because he was the one significant thing that I couldn't ask for.
"Thank you."
I watched his lips form words as if he were speaking a different language. His features, so obviously emotional to everyone else, still seemed a mystery to me. I didn't understand.
"Would you like a shower?" I asked with precise syllables. Dumbly trying to find what to say. Not knowing the rules of this morning after game since he, in this case, was Harry. Which made all the difference.
He pulled out the front of his shirt, then let it settle back.
"I'll take care of that at home, I guess." He stood, the long limbs upright. He looked around for and started collecting the rest of his clothes. The jacket he'd eagerly shrugged off. The shoes that he'd stumbled over in his hurry to my bedroom.
Anything in my apartment that pooled into messiness was his doing from the night before.
"Do you need a ride back?"
"No, I'll walk. It's not far."
His coat put on, and he moved for the door. The silence empty between us. Neither of us saying anything.
I didn't know what to say.
At last, I got up to let him out, but Harry pulled open the door for himself stepping past me. Taking the initiative. Then a peculiar spark seemed to pass between us in his final stare. He lifted one finger to his lips.
"Shh." His voice unexpectedly carefree. A fleeting mischievous smile. "I won't tell."
And then he was gone.
***
self-protection was in times of true danger
your best defense to mistrust and be wary
surrendering a feat of unequalled measure
and I'm trilled to let you in
overjoyed to be let in in kind.
***