by Perr - This is POV 22, which means, if you don't remember, the last time of the 'update everyday' treats we give. Unfortunately, Jas hasn't completed her side of Harry's next POV, so be patient and keep checking back! :) Btw, thanks for rave reviews. :D
Draco's POV
McGonagall shoots me an offending look. "Are you taking down your notes, Mr. Malfoy?"
"Yes I am, Professor." My quill is dry, and I stare at half-filled parchment. Everyone around seems to have theirs three-quarters through, and I dip my quill in ink to catch up.
I bite my lip.
I taste him. Everything. The words on my parchment seem to dissipate into mist even though it's incapable of doing so, and my mind is set ablaze. My scribbles press harder and harder into the piece while I'm thinking of him, hair, eyes, voice, skin---
The tip of my quill breaks.
Damn, I think. I put it aside and ask to borrow one from Crabbe. McGonagall slows down to steal a quick glare at me. Crabbe hands me one of his three spare quills and I begin to write again.
I can't possibly concentrate, no, not when it's been hardly a full day from kissing him. How can he still be concentrating so hard?!
I'll tell you what my mind is filled with. It's a fancy room with a fancy mirror, on soft carpet. There's a fancy bed on it, and he and I are tangled between the sheets, the smell of our sex holding thick in the air. He'll be so fine on my fingertips, just so tight and mind-blowingly molten inside---
The tip breaks again.
"FUCK!" I shout in complete frustration, and look at the ink blotch on my once-flawless notes. I then suddenly realise that the entire class is looking at me with surprise, including a certain dark-haired boy.
"Sit down Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall says, then scolds, "I will not tolerate such language in this class!"
I have a feeling that I'll have my prefectorial status stripped from me for a week or so when I say it, but, "You know bloody nothing about anything or me, Professor, so screw off."
And I leave the class.
I rested for a bit before I headed to the Quidditch pitch. Crabbe had to take my things for me; I apologised later.
Now I stand beside Goyle as we watch the rest of the team fly around aimlessly for practice. Maybe I've still got the jitters from the injury, but all I know is that I've got some sort of phobia with my broom.
"You sure you don't want to practice?" Goyle questions.
I shrug. "You go. I'll go later." He nods and hops onto his broom and takes off.
It hasn't really been that long since my fall. And it's all someone's fault that I'm fairly afraid of flying. It's also someone's fault that it'll hurt when I fly, because it's someone's fault that I've got this deep ache in my crotch thinking about him all day.
That someone is watching me now, from a corner, and he surely thinks that I don't notice him. Well, if you're watching... Suddenly I don't feel that phobic about that broom of mine anymore.
When I do get onto it, I become a total idiot, reckless fool, and shout down to him, "Hey, Potter," and he seems surprised. "Fancy a little practice with me?" I try to keep the tone a little menacing. I mean, with my teammates around, it just isn't safe to go around talking to Potter instead of snarling at him.
He gives me this curious look. Hmm, I think, he must be thinking of practice of some other kind. Ha, the thought puts a fantastic smirk on my face. I wonder if he wants that practice.
Because if he isn't going to do anything, I'll go down there and practice with him myself.
Wait a minute. Why is he walking away?
I almost protest, but a girl flies past me in a frightening whiz. "Why don't you two just get married!"
Not a bad idea. Goodness, Draco, please. Wanting to pound him into a bed doesn't mean you want to exchange vows with him. Stupid boy. And as I think that, I don't know whether I'm scolding him, or myself.
Oh well. I grab the front of my broom, fly forwards and try to ignore the discomfort he's caused in my robes.
Night is a funny thing. It makes the shade of everything look darker, makes dull colours look black and neutral tones look gray. There is warmth under my pillow.
It's been days since I've looked into the mirror that he gave me. I refuse to look at it. Well, not that I don't want to, but talking to my supposed-current-worst enemy in the middle of the night will be a little suspicious to my fellow dorm mates. I head to the common room.
It's equally dark here, and everyone seems to be tucked in their beds soundly. Good. Finding a spot behind the couch, I light up my wand and look into an orange mirror. The light won't be that obvious here.
"You kissed me!" Potter barks. He looks stressed and like he's just gotten out of bed. He isn't wearing his glasses.
His outburst surprises me. "...Well, you talked." He frowns. "I had to do something to shut you up, right?"
"No," he disagrees. "You kissed me, and then you ran away!"
"I did not run away."
"Yes, you did, bloody chicken."
"And what does it matter to you if I did?"
He is quiet for a second. "We weren't done with our conversation." He pauses again. "You were saying something about the truce."
"Yeah, I was. But we're far beyond it now."
"Really, Malfoy, I hate you for doing this to me."
"Doing what to you?" He's bloody uncomfortable and I love doing this to him. "I mean, that kiss was just one kiss, I didn't think you'd be so hot in your pants for another one."
That was meant as a half-joke, but he obviously isn't laughing, neither is he near a smile. Instead, he's dead silent, and something that's like a heavy rocket of satisfaction launches itself around my system.
There's a noise that makes me look up and about. Nox, then I peer from behind the couch. It's that nosy Blaise looking around. I wonder how long he's been there. His eyes dart across the room, and I try to hide myself from his sight, but I think he's seen me. Even if he has, he doesn't do anything except head back into the dorms. ...Suspicious.
When I turn back to the mirror, I see that the screen is still orange, but clear. That's strange. As much as I want to keep talking to him, I find that I'm too tired to. I get up, sigh, and decide to go to sleep.
Draco's POV
McGonagall shoots me an offending look. "Are you taking down your notes, Mr. Malfoy?"
"Yes I am, Professor." My quill is dry, and I stare at half-filled parchment. Everyone around seems to have theirs three-quarters through, and I dip my quill in ink to catch up.
I bite my lip.
I taste him. Everything. The words on my parchment seem to dissipate into mist even though it's incapable of doing so, and my mind is set ablaze. My scribbles press harder and harder into the piece while I'm thinking of him, hair, eyes, voice, skin---
The tip of my quill breaks.
Damn, I think. I put it aside and ask to borrow one from Crabbe. McGonagall slows down to steal a quick glare at me. Crabbe hands me one of his three spare quills and I begin to write again.
I can't possibly concentrate, no, not when it's been hardly a full day from kissing him. How can he still be concentrating so hard?!
I'll tell you what my mind is filled with. It's a fancy room with a fancy mirror, on soft carpet. There's a fancy bed on it, and he and I are tangled between the sheets, the smell of our sex holding thick in the air. He'll be so fine on my fingertips, just so tight and mind-blowingly molten inside---
The tip breaks again.
"FUCK!" I shout in complete frustration, and look at the ink blotch on my once-flawless notes. I then suddenly realise that the entire class is looking at me with surprise, including a certain dark-haired boy.
"Sit down Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall says, then scolds, "I will not tolerate such language in this class!"
I have a feeling that I'll have my prefectorial status stripped from me for a week or so when I say it, but, "You know bloody nothing about anything or me, Professor, so screw off."
And I leave the class.
I rested for a bit before I headed to the Quidditch pitch. Crabbe had to take my things for me; I apologised later.
Now I stand beside Goyle as we watch the rest of the team fly around aimlessly for practice. Maybe I've still got the jitters from the injury, but all I know is that I've got some sort of phobia with my broom.
"You sure you don't want to practice?" Goyle questions.
I shrug. "You go. I'll go later." He nods and hops onto his broom and takes off.
It hasn't really been that long since my fall. And it's all someone's fault that I'm fairly afraid of flying. It's also someone's fault that it'll hurt when I fly, because it's someone's fault that I've got this deep ache in my crotch thinking about him all day.
That someone is watching me now, from a corner, and he surely thinks that I don't notice him. Well, if you're watching... Suddenly I don't feel that phobic about that broom of mine anymore.
When I do get onto it, I become a total idiot, reckless fool, and shout down to him, "Hey, Potter," and he seems surprised. "Fancy a little practice with me?" I try to keep the tone a little menacing. I mean, with my teammates around, it just isn't safe to go around talking to Potter instead of snarling at him.
He gives me this curious look. Hmm, I think, he must be thinking of practice of some other kind. Ha, the thought puts a fantastic smirk on my face. I wonder if he wants that practice.
Because if he isn't going to do anything, I'll go down there and practice with him myself.
Wait a minute. Why is he walking away?
I almost protest, but a girl flies past me in a frightening whiz. "Why don't you two just get married!"
Not a bad idea. Goodness, Draco, please. Wanting to pound him into a bed doesn't mean you want to exchange vows with him. Stupid boy. And as I think that, I don't know whether I'm scolding him, or myself.
Oh well. I grab the front of my broom, fly forwards and try to ignore the discomfort he's caused in my robes.
Night is a funny thing. It makes the shade of everything look darker, makes dull colours look black and neutral tones look gray. There is warmth under my pillow.
It's been days since I've looked into the mirror that he gave me. I refuse to look at it. Well, not that I don't want to, but talking to my supposed-current-worst enemy in the middle of the night will be a little suspicious to my fellow dorm mates. I head to the common room.
It's equally dark here, and everyone seems to be tucked in their beds soundly. Good. Finding a spot behind the couch, I light up my wand and look into an orange mirror. The light won't be that obvious here.
"You kissed me!" Potter barks. He looks stressed and like he's just gotten out of bed. He isn't wearing his glasses.
His outburst surprises me. "...Well, you talked." He frowns. "I had to do something to shut you up, right?"
"No," he disagrees. "You kissed me, and then you ran away!"
"I did not run away."
"Yes, you did, bloody chicken."
"And what does it matter to you if I did?"
He is quiet for a second. "We weren't done with our conversation." He pauses again. "You were saying something about the truce."
"Yeah, I was. But we're far beyond it now."
"Really, Malfoy, I hate you for doing this to me."
"Doing what to you?" He's bloody uncomfortable and I love doing this to him. "I mean, that kiss was just one kiss, I didn't think you'd be so hot in your pants for another one."
That was meant as a half-joke, but he obviously isn't laughing, neither is he near a smile. Instead, he's dead silent, and something that's like a heavy rocket of satisfaction launches itself around my system.
There's a noise that makes me look up and about. Nox, then I peer from behind the couch. It's that nosy Blaise looking around. I wonder how long he's been there. His eyes dart across the room, and I try to hide myself from his sight, but I think he's seen me. Even if he has, he doesn't do anything except head back into the dorms. ...Suspicious.
When I turn back to the mirror, I see that the screen is still orange, but clear. That's strange. As much as I want to keep talking to him, I find that I'm too tired to. I get up, sigh, and decide to go to sleep.