disc: don't own it, please don't sue me
warning: it's slash
a/n: this is a companion to "Irony", although it's perfectly understandable on its own. it's totally non graphic, but i've put it at an R just in case (i'm English and don't understand the American ratings). hope you like it! oh yeah, and in "Irony", that place where i put Will is a mistake, it's meant to say Harry.
Another mindless day preparing mindless potions for mindless students.
You stare bleakly out of the window, watching the early morning sun cast a gentle golden glow across the lake, the surface sparkling with the promise of day.
You don't need to get up this early, and yet here you are, every morning without fail. It's just you and the sunrise.
And him.
A smile plays around the corners of your mouth, though you refuse to let it take form.
Perhaps he's the reason you rise at such an ungodly hour, despite the exertions of your night together. Perhaps you need the time alone to prepare yourself for the day ahead, to clear you thoughts.
You glance at him, still sleeping, rumpled hair half hidden by the midnight blue sheets. You feel that tug of a smile.
Perhaps not.
You turn your back on the sunrise, the sunrise which has, for so long, only symbolised another mind numbing day, yet now has a different meaning altogether. You go to him, your steps silent across the cool stone floor. You don't touch him, just observe him, observe the rhythm of his sleep as his breath moves in and out, watching his chest rise and fall.
You like him best like this. Away from all the noise of the world, away from the expectations and the responsibilities and the constant, ever present fear. He never admits it to you, of course. That would seem too much like weakness. But you can see it there, hiding behind his eyes. To kill or be killed.
It's at times like this that you know you love him, would do anything for him, couldn't live without him.
You never tell him this. That, also, would seem too much like weakness.
You shake his shoulder gently, hating to wake him, but knowing it can't be avoided. He mumbles sleepily, burrowing deeper under the quilt.
You sigh, recognising the now-familiar morning ritual of forcing Potter out of bed, something you rarely have the energy or patience for.
"Potter…" You hate how your voice sounds, almost like a whine, none of the usual ice coming through. You silently curse yourself. What is it about this boy that affects you so much?
He mumbles some more in reply and pulls the covers further over his head.
The sight is definitely enough to make you smile. Not that you do so, of course.
You tug the edge of the quilt, but it doesn't move. You can just picture it: he's holding onto that sheet for dear life with a grin the size of the Grand Canyon.
"Potter," you say loudly. "You are an insufferable brat."
There's a moment of silence, then he pokes his head out, green eyes blinking sleepily at you.
Ha.
He smiles.
"It's a good job you find me irresistible then, isn't it?"
You scowl as he retreats under the quilt once more, no doubt giggling to himself at the look on your face.
You glare impatiently at the lump, trying to decide which method of extraction to use today. A blast of arctic wind is always very effective, and a foghorn rather amusing. Then there's always the old glass-of-water-over-the-head trick.
A slow, lazy, almost-smile crosses your face.
Perhaps a new method?
You lean over the bed, feeling the warmth of his body caress your skin despite
barriers of sheet and clothing.
"Harry," you whisper.
You feel him shudder beneath you, then go very still.
He loves it when you say his name.
"Harry," you breathe.
He peers over the top of the quilt, an absurdly pleased and slightly shy smile lighting his eyes.
He looks perfect.
You capture his lips with yours, and he surrenders with a mixture of a sigh and a groan, wrapping his arms around your neck, pulling you closer…and letting go of the quilt.
You seize your moment, whipping it away from him and he lets out an indignant cry.
"Hey!"
If you were capable of smiling sweetly, which you're definitely not, you would do so now as you say "It's time to get up."
He glares at you, but with his tousled hair and still-sleepy gaze he only serves to look adorably pathetic.
You turn away, before uttering some sentiments of love that you would soon regret. After all, the little brat doesn't need to know how deep your feelings have become. He'd only use it as an excuse to tease you, his attempts at which so far are about as successful as your own at smiling.
His arms slide around your waist and he rests his head on your back with a small sigh.
You try not to enjoy it too much -after all it won't last- but the familiar touch is so soft, and warm, and entirely wonderful that it's hard to find a down side.
You frown as an odd buzzing suddenly shudders across your skin and through your teeth. What the- is he humming?
That must be the down side.
"Potter," you say irritably. "It's too early. Please desist."
You feel his head move to one side. "It is too early," he agrees. "Desist?"
"It means stop Potter, cease, abstain from, discontinue."
He's quiet for a moment, then slips under your arm so that you are face to face.
Damn. He's going to ask you something and you'll be powerless to resist.
"Why do you get up so early?"
You scowl. "Why do you get up so late?"
He laughs, although you hadn't meant to be funny.
"I guess I always hope you might sleep in too, surprise me."
You're not quite sure what to make of that but he saves you the trouble of replying by kissing you quickly on the lips, then turning in the direction of the bathroom.
A moment later you hear the sound of the shower and that ridiculous singing which, if you didn't always find so annoying, would be quite endearing.
You sigh as your gaze falls on the messy, rumpled bed. Would it kill him to make the bed, just for once? Yes, you reflect grimly. It probably would, considering the state of his dormitory.
He smells clean and fresh when he emerges, ready for a day of lessons. One of which will be yours.
He kisses you gently on the cheek. He wants more, you can tell, but it's getting late. It will look too suspicious.
"I'll see you tonight?"
You hear the hope in his voice. Of course you'll see him. You wouldn't have it any other way.
You nod.
He smiles, still unsure. "About eleven?"
You nod again.
You watch him as he leaves, a slight sadness written across his face at your cool treatment.
At the door he hesitates, catching your eye one last time.
You want to tell him that you're not cold because you don't care, in fact just the opposite. You care too much and you can't control it, something which frightens you. You wish suddenly you were someone else; the kind of person who could confess their undying love, who could blow kisses across a room, the type of person who does spend all morning in bed, safe and warm beneath the covers.
But you're not. So you smile.
It's small and out of place and restrained, but it's there.
You barely ever smile, showing it only to a select few, and it feels strange, stretched across your lips.
He doesn't care though.
Pure joy shines from his face, and the image is imprinted in your mind as the door swings closed behind him.
Eleven. You'll be waiting.
Your mind wanders to the night ahead that you will spend together, and the following morning, in which you will, once again, have the arduous task of extracting him from your bed.
Which new and unused method can you possibly devise this time to achieve this near-impossible feat?
Perhaps a smile.