I just kissed Harry Potter.
Wide eyed and stunned, Draco watched without seeing as Potter disappeared, somewhat loudly, through the plants and back inside. He laughed as he disappeared, then groaned and rolled over into the grass. The clatter of Potter's stumbling feet in the corridor faded away.
Fuck.
Why did I come here, he wondered.
It wasn't a crush, and it wasn't romantic, he was sure. It was the flowers. And... there was just something about Potter - his arrogance, maybe - that Draco found appealing. He wasn't sure when it had started – but he knew he never would have considered Potter as a potential sexual conquest if it hadn't been for the goddam garden.
He had been watching Potter in the garden all week, both fascinated and annoyed. He came here to relax - to forget - and it was irritating he'd had to hide for so long.
And now... he felt like an idiot. Potter would avoid him, and he'd ruined his last chance of helping his mother. Draco couldn't imagine an ally in Harry Potter, much less a friend. Potter was never going to see them as victims. It was a mistake to think they could use him. And if there had been a chance, it was gone now.
Draco imagined running his fingers through messy Gryffindor hair. It would feel different to Blaise's. He groaned again into the grass.
It was humiliating, what he wanted, and it was all because of a stupid conversation in a flowerbed at midnight.
He'd failed his mother. She wasn't going to be able to see her husband ever again. He'd lose her, just like he lost his father, and now he was losing the one other person that he had in his life – and only moments after realizing that he'd actually wanted him there.
Draco curled up tighter into the patch of flowers, where Potter had been, and for the first time in his life he hated the smell of wilderflower.
Harry had no idea how he had managed to end up in front of his bedroom – he hadn't been paying any attention to where his feet were taking him. His mind had been spinning, screaming, unwilling to think straight. He tore open the ornate door and slammed it shut behind him, falling back against it.
A bead of sweat trailed down his face, tickling as it reached his chin. His heart thumped steadily in his chest.
What just happened?
Malfoy had kissed him. But why? And then – and at this Harry's face flamed in shame – there was that small moment, that tiny second, when Harry had considered kissing him back.
The Malfoys had practically kidnapped him, he reminded himself. He needed to escape.
Angry, Harry stood up and walked over to the window. There was no way that he was going to give Malfoy the pleasure of seeing him squirm. He wasn't going to get embarrassed over this. He wasn't going to retaliate at all. He'd get up tomorrow, and go to breakfast. If Malfoy was there, he'd act completely indifferent.
He drew his eyes away from the moon and got into bed. The old witch on the wall was silent and asleep. Placing his glasses on the bedside table, Harry rolled over and closed his eyes. But he couldn't sleep.
He traced his lips with his fingers. Why?