Count to ten, a harry potter fanfic

Count to ten…

One

I watch.

Two

There he is,

Mysterious and dark.

Three

Same as usual,

At the same time,

And in the same place.

Four

I gaze as he strides across the Quidditch pitch,

His robes billow out behind him,

And his books struggle to release themselves from his grip,

As the wind tears at his messy hair.

Five

His hair, the deep ebony,

Like ravens feathers atop his head,

Shining like the sun even in the abysmal weather,

All curled and mussed in the stormy wind that envelopes him,

Like someone has been running their hand through it.

Six

His eyes, emerald and glowing,

Behind the constriction of rounded glass,

Trapped, with eyes like a beast captured,

The delicate lashes hung with rain drops,

With a mirage of colours displayed in each droplet,

Being blinked away to reveal perfection in vermillion.

Seven

His body, outlined by scarlet,

So perfectly cut and shaped,

By the years of grinding my skills to a pulp,

Out on the pitch where I now stand,

Muscles hardened and defined,

And so flexible,

With a touch so feather light.

Eight

His hands, so calm and steady,

Running over every inch,

As if to memorise it,

Touching and feeling his way,

Over every part,

Sometimes cool and slow,

At others heated and fast,

Leaving marks.

Nine

His face, wickedly perfect,

Tanned skin,

Unblemished and smooth,

Soft as silk,

Eyes hidden by raven black,

A nose so noble,

That it shows his Gryffindor pride,

And proves he really is,

The Boy who lived.

Ten

His lips, so soft,

And smooth,

And covering my own,

With grace,

And love,

As we embrace,

And kiss,

With passion,

And desire,

Together,

And he says;

"Now count to ten Draco and we can do it again…"

One

I see him standing there.

Two

He is there,

Cold and calculating.

Three

Right where I told him to be,

At the right time,

In the right place.

Four

I feel his eyes upon me,

As I stride across the Quidditch pitch,

The wind in his hair,

Obscuring his vision of blue and grey.

Five

His hair, the soft silver,

Like molten diamonds curled around his face,

Giving off a luminescent glow,

Free of its usual gel constraints,

Billowing softly over his eyes.

Six

His eyes, Icy and shining,

His hair falling gently into them,

Like tendrils of a beautiful willow tree,

Trailing its branches in a pool,

Deep blue with grey emotion flows,

With lashed of gentlest gold.

Seven

His body, enveloped in jade,

Hiding the most beautiful diamond,

Cut and shaped to perfection,

From training on this field,

Strong and bold,

His touch reminiscent,

Of the power inside.

Eight

His hands, so soft and caring,

With a touch of love,

And passionate caresses,

With heated palms,

And pressured finger tips,

So different to the adored touches,

So clammy and steady,

Running over the skin.

Nine

His face, angelically ideal,

Skin so pale,

Soft and touchable,

Smooth as snakeskin,

Sapphire torches burning,

Against golden strands,

In a renaissance face,

Proud and strong,

Courageous features for one so sly.

Ten