"Damn that itch," grumbled the blonde-haired boy as he mounted his Nimbus 2001, "It needs to be scratched — again."
This was the match he had been dreaming of for weeks, what he had been waiting for all year; but it all seemed insignificant now, all he wanted was her. Sitting here, wasting time, he knew he should be pursuing the girl that could scratch this itch, the one girl that could satisfy his intensified hunger, the one he craves for. Instead he was sitting here on his broom, in the cold wind, waiting for the whistle signalling the start of the game; he sits here waiting to lose another match against Gryffindor, he sits here waiting for his doom.
When the whistle was blown, he pushed off hard from ground, taking his frustration out on his eager broom; leaning his slim form into its polished handle as he pushed it further, higher into the sky. Around him the air was cold, the wind freezing as it tore through his slicked back hair and billowed in his robes. His team mates were swerving around him, the bludgers zooming through the air; he could hear the crowd cheering and the commentator's droning voice between the screeches of the wind. Looking down into the crowd, he knew she was down there somewhere, in the masses of Gryffindor red and gold, cheering, but not for him. Never would she cheer for him.
She was the reason for him to keep living the hours of the day; she was the light at the end of the dark, endless tunnel his life had taken. He wanted to look into her eyes as he did last night; he wanted to breathe in her scent and make her his own; he wanted to hold her tightly; he wanted to feel her against his naked chest. He had dreamt for so long about last night; and it had happened so fast, so quickly, he needed it again. When she kissed him, he was in ecstasy; when she touched him, he was the happiest man alive; when she looked at him like she loved him, his heart grew too big for his chest. She was a disease that would never leave him, an addiction that had him hooked, she made him itch.
He was almost desperate to see her, hear her, to know that she was alive and near him. He craved for her scent, and the way she looked at him; he longed to hear her speak his name, and the way she felt against him; he needed above all, for her to love him. He knew though, as he continued to circle the stadium, that it would never be possible, that she would never love him; they were sworn enemies, foes that would never be friends. The strongest love potion could never diminish her distaste, the darkest spell could never bind her; there nothing on this world that could make her his own.
Shifting uncomfortably on his broom, he looked in vain in the dreary grey sky around him for a glint of gold, for the key of getting him off this broom and hopefully into her awaiting arms. If the potion was still working, would she be in green and silver cheering him on? Would she celebrate with him when he won the game? Would she pretend that last night never happened? As these questions ran through his head, the doubts set further in, wedging themselves between his happiest memories, pushing themselves to the front of his mind.
Pulling his broom to a halt, he stopped and looked down at the game playing below him. He watched as Potter flew aimlessly in circles around the pitch, as the Gryffindor team made goal after goal. In the highest stadium, he could see Snape watching with polite interest and Dumbledore fiddling with the end of his beard; McGonagall was now commentating, and his father was there, his blonde hair reflecting the dull sunlight as he glared at the Gryffindor's in the stadium below them. Letting his gaze drop, he focused on the Gryffindor's as they cheered loudly when their winning team scored yet again. Scanning the crowd, he could see no head of bushy brown hair amongst the vivid red locks of her friends, she was not there.
Leaning forward slightly, he started to move again, pushing his broom into a fast pace before pulling up beside the golden boy himself. He, though, looked a mess; his usually messy black hair flying in all directions, his glasses cracked and his face a pale shade of white.
"What do you want Malfoy?" he sneered, his eyes narrowing in annoyance as he spotted the boy hovering on the broom beside him.
"Just wondering if you had caught the snitch yet" he spat back at the boy who had rivalled him for years "—you know since you're both golden and such, I just thought it would be attracted to you"
"Ahhh so that's why you never caught the golden snitch?" Potter retorted "Since you're the Slytherin King and such, gold never would be your colour."
Before the words were out of Potters mouth and into the air around them, he zoomed off, spotting a glint of gold near the Slytherin hoops, on the other side of the pitch, if he caught this, it could be his opportunity to prove to her that he's better than the others. If he caught this snitch he could celebrate with her, just her, in their common room tonight. He wouldn't need to use a potion; she would love him as she did last night. Racing beside him, Potter was trying to match his speed, trying to keep up with him, but not today. Today was the day that he was going to win the match, today was the day he was going to win his girl, today was the day he was going to scratch that itch.
Leaning forwards, he could feel the wind flying through his fingertips; he could hear the snitch buzzing through the air, fighting against the wind as it tried to stay on course. It was at his fingertips, success was inches away; it was all he wanted. Stretching, he pushed his arm further away from his body, his hand expanding, his fingers reaching out, and scooping the snitch from the sky. He had done it, he had succeeded, he had caught the golden snitch, he had made Slytherin history; he had beaten Harry Potter.
Two hours later
Celebrations surrounded him as he sat in the chair before the fire, shivering, his body covered in a cold sweat as those around him partied. Around his shoulders was a banner; Slytherin colours, green and silver; on his head, the trophy turned upside down. His Quidditch robes were still buttoned securely around his neck, but fell in shreds around him as he shakily got to his boot clad feet.
"Draco! No! You can't leave yet!" several people cried as they tried to push him back into his recently vacated chair "The party's only just started mate!"
"Off" he commanded to the people pushing him down as he watched their hands fall to their sides, "I will be going now, and I will not be stopped"
Pushing his way through the crowds, he headed straight out the door and into the darkened hallways leading to his own common room. He had been waiting to see her all day, waiting to see her reaction to his victory for the past two hours; he wanted to see if the potion was still working. He wanted to look into her eyes, let his hands roam through her hair, he wanted to count the faint freckles blemishing her skin; he wanted to touch her all over. He wanted to kiss her until she passed out from lack of air, he wanted to hug her until she was crushed in his arms; he wanted to sleep beside her; he wanted to be inside of her for the rest of his life.
Clambering through the deserted corridors, he could still hear the faint celebrations of his fellow Slytherin housemates as he neared his own common room. He hadn't even seen her, and yet, his heart was racing in his chest, and his hands were shaking like leaves in the autumn winds. As he neared the portrait that led to her, he paused, thoughts streaming through his head, negativity pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. Would her beautiful eyes glaze over in anger when she sees him? Would her hair frizzle with electricity as she stood with her arms folded glaring in his direction? Would she hate him for beating her best friend?
Breathing deeply, he looked at the portrait and mumbled the password, not knowing what to expect waiting for him. Holding his head high in Malfoy pride, he stepped through the dimly lit passageway and into the spacious common room, suspiciously looking around the room but not noticing anything different. The fire was burning, the couches empty, the books were put in their place and their mess from last night was cleaned up; the common room was spotlessly perfect. Disappointment shook through him, his elevated heart dropped as though it was filled with lead; looking down at his feet he trudged through to his room, his feet dragging with every step.
"Draco? Draco—is that you?" he heard as a door open slightly and heard her footsteps on the floor.
Spinning around, he felt his pulse quicken and his eyes grow large. She was there, she didn't hate him, she didn't despise him; she looked like she still liked him. Her hair was falling in streams down her back and her caramel-brown eyes were focused on him; her lips looked full and soft almost asking for him to kiss them.
"Hermione?" he asked as she stepped closer, stopping only feet from himself.
"What happened? You look sick!" she exclaimed before grabbing his hand and leading him to the nearby couch and pushing him onto it, "Lie down so I can fix you"
Relenting to the gentle pressure she had placed on his shoulders, he lowered himself onto the soft cushions of the couch, and closed his eyes, almost instantly feeling himself relax. He could feel her eyes critically assessing every part of his body, he could imagine her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she determined what to do, whether she should touch him or leave him be. Before long, he felt her hand on his forehead, feeling for his temperature and not long after a damp cloth replaced it, cooling his heated body. Breathing deeply, he listened to her move around him, and sit on the carpeted floor nearby.
After what seemed hours, he opened his eyes after hearing her sigh and slightly mumble to herself, and saw her sitting on the floor by his head reading a text book; her quill scratching on the parchment as she scribbled down notes. Reaching out he stroked her long hair, loving the way it felt in his hand as it moved silkily over his palm, and seemed to just flow through his fingers when she swung her head around to look at him. Her eyes, full of shock, focused on his own before she stood and leaned down, pressing her soft lips firmly against his own. Looking away, she took the cloth from his forehead and walked away, through into another room. As she left his sight, he reached up, putting his fingertips to his lips, he could still feel her lips upon his own. Despite shivering as though he had walked through the snow with no coat on, he craved for her company; he wanted her close to him.
Feeling suddenly hot, he sat up and pulled off the shirt beneath his robes and lay back down, letting his arms rest crossed loosely on his stomach. Keeping his eyes open despite the incomprehensive weight of his eyelids, he waited for her to come back, watching the doorway she had gone through; already he missed her company, just her simple presence. He was tempted to call out her name; to ask her where she went; to ask her when she was coming back; but that would be low, make her think he was desperate. No he wasn't desperate, he just had an itch that he alone could not scratch; not another single girl but her could scratch it. Only she could scratch this itch.
Hope you guys liked it, I felt that I had to tone down the sexual scenes, so now I shall just imply until I find myself in the right mood to right it again :D I felt that after I got such a great response from you guys that I should update it...I just hope that you like it and you all get a BIG Thankyou for the positive response (Whoooo 9 Reviews, 7 Alerts and 1 Favourite!!!!) Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou...lets just all review this chapter and try and make more than 9 reviews!!
Mwah
Queen of the Scoubies