by Perr
Draco's POV
I had a dreamless sleep. For once, my mind was at rest, not thinking about animals and other unmentionables.
It's evening, and dinner serves something I'm willing to eat for once –--a rack of lamb--- and I'm sawing at the last bit of flesh with my knife.
When I'm done with the meal, I retreat back to the dorms, filled with satisfaction and red wine. Since I have this need to have a word with dear non-friend Potter, I quickly write down on a corner of my Potions text (from page 78), a message for him. I tear it out and fold it, step back into the Great Hall to send over to the Gryffindor table via my wand and a bolting Wingardium.
Potter.
I hate writing so many letters to you because
1) It makes me use a whole lot of parchment that could be saved for something else (hence the use of textbook this time around) and
2) We look like a jolly old couple, sending each other love letters that really aren't. So use that silly map of yours, and find me lurking in one of the corridors tonight (at midnight), where we can save the trees and settle things once and for all.
Draco.
It bounces off his chest, making the rest around him look on curiously. He reads it, then throws a glance my way. I offer the most serious look I can muster, and ignore the rest around myself, but I'm quite sure that someone's watching me very closely.
Midnight.
"Lumos," and the moonlit corridors become slightly brighter. The portraits grumble with their oil-painted lips and frown with their charcoal eyebrows, and one even snaps, "You kids better stop this curfew-cutting!"
"Shh, you bloody old man."
"Not any bloodier than you're going to get when you're discovered!"
Stupid painting.
Soft, padded feet make their way over, but there's nothing around. This is absolutely frightening, to be alone in the night here. I don't know what possessed me to come up with such a meeting place.
"Hey," a whisper sounds, and Harry Potter appears before my eyes with map in hand, glowing wand and horrible-looking brown pants.
"Another plaything of yours, Potter?"
"Please. What is it that's so urgent?" he says, turning the cloak inside out so he won't misplace it.
I falter. "T-well, I-um, um---"Stop being incoherent! "---Well, I told you to come down so that I could tell you that..." Am I going to say this? "...That I could tutor you if you'd like."
"What?" he raises a brow, and replies, "Thanks, but I already have Hermione for that."
He obviously knows that was a big, fat fib.
"You kids, put out that light! I could go blind and I don't have any real eyes!"
"Nox," I utter with a roll of my own eyes. I'm going to vandalise that man one day. "I've been feeling strange, Potter, this whole truce thing."
I don't want it to be a truce anymore.
Say it. Of all moments, a cat runs by. "Filch!" Potter exclaims, and then he hurls the entire cloak over the both of us. We back ourselves to a wall and sink slowly into a sit. Nox.
"Stay quiet."
That's a bit obvious, isn't it? It feels slightly itchy under the fabric. The thub-thup of boots hobble by, and then the caretaker looks around wearily with his oil lamp. He looks bigger than he really is, and I've never felt so small.
"You too, you put out that light! Inconsiderate bunch." A painting of a milkmaid sighs at the old man portrait.
Potter smells like a breeze. He's unbelievably alert, and ready for anything. He makes me nervous, hiding under this blanket with him, watching a grumpy Argus Filch try to find us.
Crash.
The noise sends him thundering away, and we are alone again.
"Did you do that?" I ask quietly, referring to the noise.
"No."
"Okay."
When everything is dead silent (except for that grumbling man in the picture), I notice that my hand is on his thigh.
Let go, Draco!, yells an insignificant heterosexual conscience. As much as I'd like to, I can't. It just stays where it is, and I'm uselessly staring at my hand, dumbfounded by my actions.
I notice Potter's staring at it too. He isn't doing anything about it. He doesn't look surprised, scared, shocked, glad or angry, his face is just plastered with utter indifference, like he's made out of stone for this particular moment.
He speaks, frozen. "You were saying?" And his head turns to me fully. I can't move! I can't keep my hands off him for all the wrong reasons. "What was it that you wanted to tell me, really." He sounds short of breath.
And I just look at him, stiff, uncomfortable, and yearning---
Malfoy, you're gonna regret this, bloody idiot
"I don't know, really. It was supposed to be about you and I."
"What about us?"
Us.
Out of sudden desperation, I become mobile again, the occupied hand squeezing and
just like that so unexpectedly
my other hand pulls him forward into a heated kiss, running through tousled raven black hair, just bringing him closer and closer...
I don't know if I'm just a hormonal teenage boy anymore.
I don't know if he's responding, everything is going so quickly, and I'm just kissing and kissing and kissing, listening to the meet of our lips, tip of my tongue just probing an eager mouth to my own satisfaction and fingers just roaming to such hot places they shouldn't and mouth just drinking in the taste of Harry---
---when I realise what I'm doing.
In a lost haze of confusion and flurry, I pull away, scrambling out from under the cloak, shoving my wand in my pocket.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
And I run.
Draco's POV
I had a dreamless sleep. For once, my mind was at rest, not thinking about animals and other unmentionables.
It's evening, and dinner serves something I'm willing to eat for once –--a rack of lamb--- and I'm sawing at the last bit of flesh with my knife.
When I'm done with the meal, I retreat back to the dorms, filled with satisfaction and red wine. Since I have this need to have a word with dear non-friend Potter, I quickly write down on a corner of my Potions text (from page 78), a message for him. I tear it out and fold it, step back into the Great Hall to send over to the Gryffindor table via my wand and a bolting Wingardium.
Potter.
I hate writing so many letters to you because
1) It makes me use a whole lot of parchment that could be saved for something else (hence the use of textbook this time around) and
2) We look like a jolly old couple, sending each other love letters that really aren't. So use that silly map of yours, and find me lurking in one of the corridors tonight (at midnight), where we can save the trees and settle things once and for all.
Draco.
It bounces off his chest, making the rest around him look on curiously. He reads it, then throws a glance my way. I offer the most serious look I can muster, and ignore the rest around myself, but I'm quite sure that someone's watching me very closely.
Midnight.
"Lumos," and the moonlit corridors become slightly brighter. The portraits grumble with their oil-painted lips and frown with their charcoal eyebrows, and one even snaps, "You kids better stop this curfew-cutting!"
"Shh, you bloody old man."
"Not any bloodier than you're going to get when you're discovered!"
Stupid painting.
Soft, padded feet make their way over, but there's nothing around. This is absolutely frightening, to be alone in the night here. I don't know what possessed me to come up with such a meeting place.
"Hey," a whisper sounds, and Harry Potter appears before my eyes with map in hand, glowing wand and horrible-looking brown pants.
"Another plaything of yours, Potter?"
"Please. What is it that's so urgent?" he says, turning the cloak inside out so he won't misplace it.
I falter. "T-well, I-um, um---"Stop being incoherent! "---Well, I told you to come down so that I could tell you that..." Am I going to say this? "...That I could tutor you if you'd like."
"What?" he raises a brow, and replies, "Thanks, but I already have Hermione for that."
He obviously knows that was a big, fat fib.
"You kids, put out that light! I could go blind and I don't have any real eyes!"
"Nox," I utter with a roll of my own eyes. I'm going to vandalise that man one day. "I've been feeling strange, Potter, this whole truce thing."
I don't want it to be a truce anymore.
Say it. Of all moments, a cat runs by. "Filch!" Potter exclaims, and then he hurls the entire cloak over the both of us. We back ourselves to a wall and sink slowly into a sit. Nox.
"Stay quiet."
That's a bit obvious, isn't it? It feels slightly itchy under the fabric. The thub-thup of boots hobble by, and then the caretaker looks around wearily with his oil lamp. He looks bigger than he really is, and I've never felt so small.
"You too, you put out that light! Inconsiderate bunch." A painting of a milkmaid sighs at the old man portrait.
Potter smells like a breeze. He's unbelievably alert, and ready for anything. He makes me nervous, hiding under this blanket with him, watching a grumpy Argus Filch try to find us.
Crash.
The noise sends him thundering away, and we are alone again.
"Did you do that?" I ask quietly, referring to the noise.
"No."
"Okay."
When everything is dead silent (except for that grumbling man in the picture), I notice that my hand is on his thigh.
Let go, Draco!, yells an insignificant heterosexual conscience. As much as I'd like to, I can't. It just stays where it is, and I'm uselessly staring at my hand, dumbfounded by my actions.
I notice Potter's staring at it too. He isn't doing anything about it. He doesn't look surprised, scared, shocked, glad or angry, his face is just plastered with utter indifference, like he's made out of stone for this particular moment.
He speaks, frozen. "You were saying?" And his head turns to me fully. I can't move! I can't keep my hands off him for all the wrong reasons. "What was it that you wanted to tell me, really." He sounds short of breath.
And I just look at him, stiff, uncomfortable, and yearning---
Malfoy, you're gonna regret this, bloody idiot
"I don't know, really. It was supposed to be about you and I."
"What about us?"
Us.
Out of sudden desperation, I become mobile again, the occupied hand squeezing and
just like that so unexpectedly
my other hand pulls him forward into a heated kiss, running through tousled raven black hair, just bringing him closer and closer...
I don't know if I'm just a hormonal teenage boy anymore.
I don't know if he's responding, everything is going so quickly, and I'm just kissing and kissing and kissing, listening to the meet of our lips, tip of my tongue just probing an eager mouth to my own satisfaction and fingers just roaming to such hot places they shouldn't and mouth just drinking in the taste of Harry---
---when I realise what I'm doing.
In a lost haze of confusion and flurry, I pull away, scrambling out from under the cloak, shoving my wand in my pocket.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
And I run.