Author: Ageless Drake
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: snort Read and find out sillies!
Rating: Pg-15ish or so...?
Spoilers: none
Authors Note: dies Don't even begin to ask where this came from. I needed a break from "Dragon Noir" and my new original fiction project. You'll have to excuse my 2am plot bunnies... or lack-there-of...
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He doesn't want to be there, and he knows that, but he is anyway, sneaking through the hallways, and down in the dungeons, because heat rises, and the towers are stifling, even on nights when it gets down to a pleasant 10 degrees celcius.
And he always sees him, because it seems his rooms are so far underground that the cold of winter from three years prier is still trapped there.
He likes the cold, because it reminds him of home. They both like it. But there's something about being down there that makes them both want that slow, burning, stifling heat. So they make their own, trying to bend the frigid cold, but never break it, never shatter it.
They never kiss, or talk until they're done. It's not about emotions or affection or - god forbid - love. It's about the heat that drove him down there, and a different heat that both drives him in and pushes him farther away.
There is no exchange of money, though there probably should be. But who would take, and who would receive, they justify. So the money weights their pockets, and they pay each other with favors.
It's his turn to pay that night, the dungeon rat, the bat. And he does, with supple caresses that will never see the light of day, with a warm, soft tongue on his body, with a grunt as he takes him in, faster than he should.
But blood burns too, so he grits his teeth, and moans, because that's how the game works. Because they both want it, need it, and both know that, at the same time that they know in the morning there will be no furtive, heated, knowing lovers-glances between them; you have to love to have a lover, and they don't love each other.
But as they moan and writhe and scream their way to oblivion, each wonders what it would be like to love someone, and do what they're doing with a lover, instead of a cheap one-night-stand - though it has been continuous for nearly a month, every night.
As he dresses, the other watches him, almost appraising. And every time he turns to that devilishly handsome face and those cold blue eyes, it's the same quip:
"Honestly, what WOULD Potter say about this?"
He doesn't want to be there, in Malfoy's rooms, but the mocking question brings home the reason why he is. It's not just the heat that draws him in like a moth.
Where else would he go?
"You may leave now, Finnegan."
-Fin-