Take some Harry/Draco shaken and very stirred.
I'll try
Draco wondered, that maybe just maybe, Potter was the one that would save him. It had become a nagging thought, just as the Hogwarts express doors slid closed, obscuring Potter’s black black hair and sun kissed skin from view. He was fifteen then, no dark mark burning into the delicate skin of his arm, no covert operations, nothing but the trivialities of the end of everything, and the start of nothings.
But life had changed from back then, nights were endless, and trust was pulled like a taut bow, pulling, pulling, and pulling. Death had been as natural as the air that Draco breathed, but the air was stale, with a hint of rancor that hung thickly. It was suffocating to say in the least, but it was nothing that Draco hadn’t been taught before.
“Death, dearest boy, is the fondest memory and biggest advantage you’ll ever have.” He was four then, sitting on his father’s lap, blissfully ignorant, and playing with the pendulum that stood on his father’s large oak desk. His father’s eyes were stern with gentle guidance, his voice strangely distant from his usual cold tone. If only he knew then.
His footsteps were almost silent against the dank dungeon floor, his arms out, and fingers stretched absentmindedly, brushing against the tapestries hung on the walls. Then he felt something peculiar, warm to the touch, far different from the chilly stone of the dungeon, and far softer than any of the tattered aging tapestries of old. His fingers scrabbled through the seemingly invisible material, clutching it and pulling it away. It was then that the image of Harry Potter trickled in, his face of minor discomfort.
“Well, well...”
“Don’t patronize me Malfoy.” There was an edge to Potter’s voice; it sent chills up Draco’s spine.
Strong hands tugged at the cloak in his arms, pulling him inevitably closer. Groins bumped accidentally, the rustle of robes and commotion. The silvery cloak slipped between his fingers, Potter’s hands were at his shoulders pinning him to the wall. Draco lost all the common sense to breathe. Eyes, green, beautiful, there was no coherent thought that Draco could fathom. It was there and then, he decided.
“Save me.” His head lunged forward, a clash of teeth, and lips. Harry was slack jawed for a second, contemplating between kissing back, and pushing Malfoy as far away as his arms would allow. He nipped on the reddened lips lightly, drawing out a soft sigh.
“What are you going on about Malfoy?” Fingers threaded their way through his hair, wrenching his head lower. One of his hands snuck up Malfoy’s misbuttoned shirt, another skittering up his arm, pausing slightly. He could feel the searing of the Dark Mark, the snake hissing and spitting at him, curling its way around the skull.
“Save me stupid, you’re the only one who can.” It seemed like Draco was babbling now, their movements causing the friction in their jeans, causing Draco to curse every condemnation thought possible.
They broke apart, breath ragged. “I’ll try Malfoy, I’ll try.”
Draco wondered, that maybe just maybe, Potter was the one that would save him. It had become a nagging thought, just as the Hogwarts express doors slid closed, obscuring Potter’s black black hair and sun kissed skin from view. He was fifteen then, no dark mark burning into the delicate skin of his arm, no covert operations, nothing but the trivialities of the end of everything, and the start of nothings.
But life had changed from back then, nights were endless, and trust was pulled like a taut bow, pulling, pulling, and pulling. Death had been as natural as the air that Draco breathed, but the air was stale, with a hint of rancor that hung thickly. It was suffocating to say in the least, but it was nothing that Draco hadn’t been taught before.
“Death, dearest boy, is the fondest memory and biggest advantage you’ll ever have.” He was four then, sitting on his father’s lap, blissfully ignorant, and playing with the pendulum that stood on his father’s large oak desk. His father’s eyes were stern with gentle guidance, his voice strangely distant from his usual cold tone. If only he knew then.
His footsteps were almost silent against the dank dungeon floor, his arms out, and fingers stretched absentmindedly, brushing against the tapestries hung on the walls. Then he felt something peculiar, warm to the touch, far different from the chilly stone of the dungeon, and far softer than any of the tattered aging tapestries of old. His fingers scrabbled through the seemingly invisible material, clutching it and pulling it away. It was then that the image of Harry Potter trickled in, his face of minor discomfort.
“Well, well...”
“Don’t patronize me Malfoy.” There was an edge to Potter’s voice; it sent chills up Draco’s spine.
Strong hands tugged at the cloak in his arms, pulling him inevitably closer. Groins bumped accidentally, the rustle of robes and commotion. The silvery cloak slipped between his fingers, Potter’s hands were at his shoulders pinning him to the wall. Draco lost all the common sense to breathe. Eyes, green, beautiful, there was no coherent thought that Draco could fathom. It was there and then, he decided.
“Save me.” His head lunged forward, a clash of teeth, and lips. Harry was slack jawed for a second, contemplating between kissing back, and pushing Malfoy as far away as his arms would allow. He nipped on the reddened lips lightly, drawing out a soft sigh.
“What are you going on about Malfoy?” Fingers threaded their way through his hair, wrenching his head lower. One of his hands snuck up Malfoy’s misbuttoned shirt, another skittering up his arm, pausing slightly. He could feel the searing of the Dark Mark, the snake hissing and spitting at him, curling its way around the skull.
“Save me stupid, you’re the only one who can.” It seemed like Draco was babbling now, their movements causing the friction in their jeans, causing Draco to curse every condemnation thought possible.
They broke apart, breath ragged. “I’ll try Malfoy, I’ll try.”