"The Properties of Gillyweed

By Nicole Hart

It may seem strange that such a small plant…"

Draco put down his quill. He had been grading papers for the past hour and a half, down in the dungeons. In that time, he had been up to see Harry twice, just watching from the door each time as Harry taught this generation all about Defense Against the Dark Arts.

He had been through the essays on unicorn tail hairs (first years). And then he started on the third year ones, on gillyweed. After reading Laurence Fourk's (a second Neville Longbottom, if there ever was one), he decided to take a break. He was currently fiddling around with Nicole Hart's (Ravenclaw – at least this essay would make sense…), but the only thing that was really on his mind was the memories.

Draco was still in shock. Harry had used the phoenix tears on him? Did he realize the repercussions of what he had done? He imagined he felt little goose bumps of foreboding on his skin.

Oh, Harry. Glancing down at the paper again, Draco smiled slightly. He remembered the time when Harry had used gillyweed to get through the second task, in fourth year. He supposed that he shouldn't have been so worried – after all, it was Harry Potter.

BPBPBP

Draco was silent as Potter stepped into the water, chewing frantically. There were so many things that could go wrong. Maybe Potter wouldn't chew fast enough, and being the subconsciously conformist idiot that he was, take the plunge too fast. Maybe the giant squid would pull him under, drowning him before he figured out what he was capable of. Or, if worst came to worst, Potter would be allergic to gillyweed.

Knowing Draco's luck, it would be all three in quick succession.

Potter's robes were floating on the surface of the lake, and for the moment before the transformation, he glanced to where Draco was sitting. Draco felt the bolt of energy go through him as it did every time.

Then Harry dived, and Draco truly didn't know whether he would ever see him again.

For two tense hours, Draco watched Delacour, Diggory and Krum come up to the surface, and no sign of Potter. Where was he? Distorted visions of grindylows and threatening mermaids morphed through his mind, each fate more terrible than the next.

The air was thick with tension. Finally, just as Draco thought the air would break from the strain, Potter broke the surface of the lake (so gracefully, head thrown back, gasping), clutching Weasley and the little Delacour girl.

Draco's breath was caught between relief and reluctance. If Potter died, then he wouldn't have to worry about making any choices. But if Potter died…Draco didn't quite know if he could stand not being able to see the anger in those eyes, the embarrassment flushing that beautiful skin, the soft breath escaping those perfect lips…

He had told himself over and over that it was purely sexual. After all, he was a fourteen-year-old boy. What could be expected of him? Potter was an obvious choice – heroic, sexy, and blissfully unaware of it. What was there not to love lust after?

BPBPBP

A/N: Yes, I am aware that the ending did not happen as such…I have just finished book 7….but please, bear with me. I guess this'll have to go under slightly AU, then.

Thanks so much to all the people who reviewed. I was so surprised to see so many! They really encourage me to update. Sorry, I have been busy in the last few days.