[RP Log: Harry, Draco. PG-13]
Date: Monday, October 30th.
Summary: So this is what happened to Draco and Harry during the Halloween feast. Harry goes after Draco to try and get his cloak back before they are interrupted by one of the giants. And this is only part one. I'm serious.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
It certainly wasn't a useful holiday.
There were the flickering faces of carved pumpkins, for one, which Draco had always questioned, because, really, what on earth was so innately frightening about pumpkins? If anything about them was to be considered even remotely disturbing, it might have been the garish shade in which they came. Or the smell. Quite possibly the smell. Torched pumpkin had never been a particular favorite of his, and he wrinkled his nose, even then, at the thought.
A particularly grotesque slurping noise from somewhere to his right brought Draco's internal reverie to the holiday's second fault: The entire idea seemed to be centred around the concept of gorging oneself as much as humanly possible without actually arriving at the point of explosion.
Just minutes before, four long, wooden tables had emitted identical creaks as they became suddenly laden with every sort of sweet imaginable, including the detestably stubborn kind that insisted on getting stuck to one's molars with irritating tenacity. Any appetite Draco might have had had been entirely and irrevocably banished when Crabbe and Goyle launched their assault on the table (with a crazed swiftness that very well could qualify as the only frightening aspect of Halloween).
Lips thinned, curling downwards into a frown of acute distaste, and -- fuck. It still stung. A pink tongue darted out to swipe across the sore flesh of Draco's lower lip, the metallic, almost salty taste of the not-quite-healed cut annoyingly familiar.
Of their own volition, grey eyes flicked up to land on a head of unruly black hair.
The head that had the aforementioned black hair was currently feasting away at some turkey and, really, anything that he could grab before anyone else stole it from him (specifically Ron).
Halloween, in Harry's opinion, was a fantastic holiday. Any holiday was pretty awesome in Harry's opinion though. It was never about meaning for him (he had never really learned, nor cared after a while, about what they meant), it was about celebrating and being able to celebrate. No more looking through some tiny keyhole to catch a glimpse of what he could be doing with family and friends.
The lights from the many jack-o-lanterns filled the Great Hall with a warm glow, and Harry thought that the live bats were a nice touch (he laughed so hard when one flew at Ron and he had thought it was a spider).
He had a feeling that if it wasn't for the whole pain in his wrist every time he accidentally brushed against something (which was pretty much every second), he'd be having a blast right about now.
Oh, and the whole meaning behind the wrist. Because fuck, he really wanted his cloak back and he really wanted to punch Malfoy for --
Just. For everything. (He still didn't want to acknowledge that night.)
All of a sudden, Harry froze, flinched visibly as he felt a pair of eyes on him, watching him from afar.
Speaking of Malfoy.
Harry looked up, searching out the grey eyes across from him at the next table and glared.
The blonde, for his part, arched an amused eyebrow before feigning disinterest and looking away, a faint smirk curling his lips. He could feel the potency of Potter's scathing look like some tangible force boring into his skull and, as always, the reaction pleased him. It had always been terribly entertaining, pissing Potter off; he'd nearly perfected the art. But there was something reassuring in the knowledge that, despite whatever had transpired all those nights ago (over a month had past, now he thought about it), the charged enmity between them had remained unchanged.
In fact, not much had changed, and this was almost as great a relief as it was an irritation to Draco, because it was such a damned good excuse for Potter to act as if that entire period of time had never existed. Which would have been fine, really, except that fucking Potter still had his fucking wand (and his cloak, too, for that matter), and while Draco had been able to get away with replacing Crabbe's wand with a stick and taking the real thing for himself (the professors hardly suspected anything, seeing as Crabbe was incompetent at practicing most charms, anyway), he really wanted his sodding wand back.
And yet, he hadn't brought it up. He could have owled Potter. Cornered him, perhaps. But there was an underlying sense of challenge to it all, the sense that bringing The Incident (or, rather, the Series of Incidents) up would mean something similar to giving in and acknowledging that which they'd gotten so good at utterly ignoring.
If Potter wanted to be a stubborn prick, that was fine. But Draco sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to cave first.
An odd choking noise pulled him away from his thoughts, and, oh, look, Goyle had actually managed to get pumpkin pie stuck in his throat. Emitting a weary sigh, Draco stood, eyes gazing heavenward before he pounded a firm fist onto Goyle's back, dislodging the offending piece of food.
Not waiting for a show of gratitude, he strode away from the table and toward the arching double doors, the students' incessant chatter and laughter following him on his way out of the Great Hall.
If Malfoy thought he could get away that easily, he had another thing coming for him.
The moment the blonde stood up and started to walk out, Harry had started to follow, stuffing the rest of his pumpkin pie in his mouth and quickly getting up from the table to run after him. He ignored the calls and questions that his friends called from behind him.
In a way, this was perfect. If he could get Malfoy alone, he'd be able to get the cloak away from him and at least some of his problems will be solved. Not having his cloak with him for almost a month made him antsy -- especially since it was Dumbledore who had told him to keep it with him at all times. He was stupid in letting Malfoy get it from him in the first place.
Of course, in another way, this could be some weird, elaborate trap of the Slytherin's. That didn't dawn onto Harry until after he stepped through the doors and out of the safety of the Great Hall, looking for a trace of where Malfoy would've went.
Grey eyes glinted in the flickering torchlight of the hall, a faint look of amusement registering on Draco's face as he watched the Gryffindor step out of the doorway. Draco remained silent for a moment or two, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning on the stone wall behind him.
"You're pitifully predictable, you know," he said after a few seconds' silence, taking a step out of the shadows that seemed to cling to the walls and corners like the awful, vine-like plants that his mother complained of back at the Manor. "Not very good form, that, is it?"
"And you keep hiding in the shadows like a lost little rat running away from something that's not even remotely scary," Harry countered, fire reflected in emerald green eyes and highlighting his determination. He would get his cloak back, and Malfoy wouldn't outwit him. "That's not very good form either."
He took a quick glance around him, just to make sure there weren't any surprises waiting for him when he least expected it, and then turned his gaze back onto Malfoy. "What do you want?"
A soft chuff of derisive laughter.
"It's called stealth, Potter. You should give it a go sometime," he retorted dryly, piercing grey meeting flashing green, refusing to look away. Then, matter-of-factly, "You're the one who followed me out here. What do you want?"
Harry rolled his eyes, breaking eye contact with Malfoy. He didn't much care for staring contests. "You knew I was going to follow you. That means you want something too. And I'm fairly sure you know what I want."
Smirking at that small victory, Draco lowered his hands to his sides, taking several steps toward the other boy until they were standing a few feet apart.
"As a matter of fact, I do," he said, determination in the upward tilt of his chin. "Where the fuck are you keeping my wand and my cloak?"
"Where the fuck are you keeping my cloak?" Harry retaliated, taking a step back to keep the distance between them.
Draco feigned a look of vague surprise.
"What, you didn't get the ashes I owled you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in a look of innocence.
The urge to hit Malfoy was making itself known to Harry. He wondered, if he hit the blonde in the face, would he make that cut open again? (And it was with satisfaction that Harry noted that the wound he had inflicted on Malfoy still hadn't healed yet. Fucking showed him for trying and succeeding at what he had tried to do.)
"I didn't, actually," he replied coolly.
Green eyes flashed, and Draco sensed a change in the air between them, Potter's anger charging the atmosphere, making it tense. This only caused his smirk to widen.
"Mm. Not my problem, is it?" A thoughtful tilt of his head, almost mocking, and then his expression was sobering, gaze hardening. "Give me back my wand, Potter."
His hand twitched, wanting to reach into the pocket of his robes for his replacement wand, but Draco resisted the urge, waiting.
"No cloak, no wand, Malfoy."
Harry clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes at Malfoy. They were going to do this on his terms.
Draco's lips thinned, forming a straight line as he regarded him, all glaring determination. He was almost tempted to say yes, just because, well, it was reasonable, and he wanted his wand back, damn it, but then --
But then this was Potter, and Draco had never exactly learned or cared for the art of compromise.
"I don't know, Potter," he began, a deliberate drawl dragging out every syllable. "I could always get the staff to make you give it back. A student has a right to their own wand. An invisibility cloak, however -- the Ministry could have a thing or two to say about that, you know, especially since it's down in your records that you've used it to sneak out after hours."
That statement stopped Harry in his tracks.
He couldn't afford the Ministry finding out, because that would generate too many questions that had too many answers that he wouldn't -- shouldn't give. And he knew straight away that Dumbledore wouldn't want him to get caught up in something like that (he shouldn't have let down his guard and let Malfoy take his cloak in the first place).
Shit, he thought, followed by, fucking Malfoy and his fucking Slytherin ways --
Though, hang on. Harry had told himself that he would outwit Malfoy. And to do that, he would need to outwit a Slytherin.
Think like a Slytherin, Harry. What are they like? They're cowards, first of all.
Oh. Hm.
"Do you really want to go through all that trouble, Malfoy?" Harry said, trying to mask the urgency he felt. "Get the Ministry involved, get the professors involved, get Dumbledore involved. Who are they going to believe? Me, or a Death Eater's son?" A challenging light shone in his eyes. "Wouldn't it just be best to get your wand as quickly as possible, with the least amount of trouble?"
A muscle twitched in his jaw, but otherwise, Draco remained unchanged, gaze level and unrelenting. They were nearly the same height, Draco being only an inch or two taller, but he used that to his advantage, looking down the straight ridge of his nose at him.
"First of all," he began, taking a step toward Potter, "it isn't you or I who they'd have to believe, is it? Records, Potty. School records. They rather speak for themselves."
A brief pause.
"And secondly," another step, "isn't your side all about goodness and compassion?" A faint sneer accompanied the mocking lilt of his tone. "As far as the Ministry knows, as far as your barn pot Headmaster knows, I haven't done anything. Wouldn't be sporting to use what my father's done against me, now, would it?"
"I don't have school records that prove I have an invisibility cloak," Harry glared, not at all intimidated by the extra height between them -- he could still take Malfoy down anyway.
His hand quickly went to his wand, though he didn't draw it out just yet. Something in the way Malfoy had said his second point put him on the defensive. "Are you saying that you're on the other side?"
Draco pointedly ignored Potter's question.
"Oh, no?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "All those times you've been caught out after hours -- Filch would be only too ready to attest to your having an invisibility cloak, as would I, as would half of Slytherin house. For a start."
Harry swore, felt anger bubbling under his skin, and he was going to kill Malfoy one day. He just knew it.
"So what the fuck do you want?" he demanded, exasperated and tired. "I'm sick of your fucking games. What do you want in exchange for my cloak, then, if it's not your wand?"
White teeth flashed as Draco's lips twitched into a sudden, sharp-edged smirk.
"To piss you off, mostly," he replied matter-of-factly. His voice took on a transparent sort of innocence. "Why, is it working?"
"Yes," Harry stated with a scowl. "It is. So give it back."
A short-lived pause, and then Draco was stepping forward, giving Potter a firm push backward. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway?
"Make me."
Harry felt himself falter and fall, landing painfully onto his backside and was this close to hitting his head as well if his reflexes hadn't kicked in right at that moment, hands sprawling backwards onto the cold, stone floor to catch his weight.
Malfoy was exceptionally tall from this point of view.
And that was the last straw.
"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry hissed, scrambled to his feet and was all rage and indignant fury directed at this bastard of a twat who had to make this so difficult (had to make his life so miserable) even when he had tried to compromise with him.
Green eyes flashed, lit up with a temper that felt like it would explode if he didn't somehow hurt Malfoy now and here -- and what did the blonde take him for?
He took the remaining steps between them and, soon enough, had Malfoy's collar between clenched fists, dragged his face down so they were level with each other and --
And.
-- And there was a loud bang echoing through the halls as if the castle was threatening to fall down (could that ever happen?), walls looking like they were shaking and the floor beneath them seemed to shudder through their shoes and up their spines (activated their fears and seemed to slow down time).
"What the f --" Harry began, but was cut off by a distant roar coming from the hallway to their left (the one that led to the entrance, Harry idly thought), all animistic terror and enraged defiance of a beast that didn't belong.
The sound of running feet (huge, they sounded huge) bounced off the walls and down the corridors at a rate that told Harry that whatever was coming was going to be big. It was going to be big and it was coming this way and it would be here soon.
Sirens seemed to scream into Harry's ear, flashing red behind his eyes and he knew by an instinct that had saved his life more times than it should have, that he and Malfoy were in danger.
Shit, he thought, and there was panic in his eyes as he glanced around for some sort of protection, trying to grasp onto some sort of plan. The doors to the Great Hall were too far away (when did the distance widen?) and the corridors were bare. Not even a piece of haunted armour graced these halls, and if they did, they had probably run off by now.
But then -- there. A door that lead somewhere and maybe whatever it was that was coming would pass it by.
Without thinking, Harry quickly let go of Draco and grasped his hand, ran to the door and tried to wrench it open.
It was locked.
"Alohomora!" Harry shouted, took out his wand and practically jabbed the lock with it (that spell had never failed him before). The tiny sound of a click signified the door's opening, and Harry wasted no time in opening it and shoving the two of them inside (it was a closet, a fucking closet, but it would have to do).
Before Harry closed the door and locked it (accidentally dropped his wand outside in the process, but that didn't register because they didn't have the time to worry about it right now), he caught a glimpse of a small mountain with a grey boulder on its head that was the creature screeching at the top of its lungs and lumbering towards them.
"Potter, that is my foot, you sod," came the sharp accusation, followed by a hiss of pain.
The room -- closet, leave it to Potter to choose a fucking closet to hide in -- was utterly dark, so much so that Draco couldn't really tell when his eyes were open and when they were not. He blinked a few times, in rapid succession, as if doing so would clear his vision; make the darkness less absolute, but to no avail. Body heat and the press of a sharp something -- elbow, perhaps -- digging into his ribcage were the only things indicating where the other boy was.
"Nice choice of accommodations, by the way," he went on, attempting to get into some sort of position that didn't involve the inconvenient squashing of any of his body parts. "Very -- low key. Though it's a bit of a tight fit, don't you think? And I swear I just felt something crawling on my leg, what the fuck -- hang on, that's just you. Potter, are you feeling up my leg?"
The mocking scorn in his tone quite effectively masked the fact that his mind was racing. Because, and he would have been glad to have been corrected if he was wrong, that sort of screeching just didn't happen on a normal day. Or on any day, for that matter; his ears were still ringing from it, or perhaps those were just the reverberations coming from the other side of the door, where the thing was (what the fuck was it, anyway? the screeching could have passed for a miniature dragon, but there'd been no fire, had there, so a troll, perhaps? a fucking huge, monstrous, incredibly pissed off troll?), and the walls were shaking, and he was stuck here, hiding in a closet with Potter, of all people.
Draco hated Halloween.
"YES, Malfoy, I am obviously feeling up your leg!" Harry half shouted over the piercing whatever echoing from behind the door, glowering into the darkness at what he thought was Malfoy as he threw up his hands in irritation (he might have hit Malfoy in the head, but he didn't quite care).
Adrenaline raced through his blood, his heart making a deafening beat against his ears, and leave it to Malfoy to be a fucking ungrateful bastard right after he could have just saved both of their lives. "Is that fucking all you can think about right now? We're trying to survive because there is a raging giant the size of dragon stampeding down the other side of this closet and all you can hope for is a grope?"
The darkness of his vision quickly faded as his eyesight got used to the surrounding shadows that crowded in with the two boys (he was used to being in closets, after all), and pretty soon he could somewhat see the outline of Malfoy. The blonde didn't seem to be able to see yet himself, so he took the liberties to getting them both into a position where they could stand without touching each other too much (warmth next to warmth and panting breaths that were so close and yet so far away).
"Just shut up for a second, will you?" Harry snapped, and he swore, if Malfoy uttered even one word before the danger had passed, he would shut the git up himself.
Draco raised one eyebrow in the increasingly stuffy darkness, and he could just imagine the look on Potter's face just then. Cheeks flushed from anger or exertion or, most likely in that particular scenario, both. Green eyes flashing with barely restrained exasperation. Lips parted, if the heavy sound of his breathing was any indication.
"Excitable little fellow, aren't you?" he asked dryly, a sharp-edged smirk causing his lips to twitch upward. His eyes were beginning to adjust, the faint outline of Potter's lean frame just barely discernible in the dark.
Draco became vaguely aware of the fact that they were in new positions now, these fairly more comfortable than before in the sense that there were no pointy limbs digging into vital organs, but rather the opposite in the sense that now it was outer thighs pressing against inner thighs, harsh breaths mingling, fluttering white-blonde-raven-black fringe (though it didn't really make a difference, did it? everything was dark here), adrenaline pounding through their veins, pounding in their temples, hearts pounding against ribcages that were deliciously (perilously) close.
Swallowing against the dryness in his throat, Draco shifted, not quite sure whether he was trying to distance himself from Potter (a tantalizing heat now) or bring them closer together. Because it was different now. There was no revenge, no muttered spell, no ropes, no coercing, no ... no excuses, certainly.
Now it was just him and Potter and the fucking migraine inducing giant (that was what Potter had said, wasn't it?) rampaging just outside their makeshift hiding place.
"All I'm saying, Potter," Draco went on, disregarding Potter's demand for silence. (Because since when had he heeded any of Potter's demands, really? Sodding and never.) "Is that if you really wanted a repeat performance of last time, you hardly had to go through all the trouble of sneaking a giant into the castle. You could have, you know. Begged. Grovelled. Done a spot of drooling, as long as my robes remained unsullied."
He wondered, vaguely, how long it would take before Potter finally snapped.
Harry kicked Malfoy as hard as he could without hurting himself in the process, ignorant of the fact that he was pressing his body forward, bringing heat closer, as he brought his mouth to Malfoy's ear so he didn't have to shout (breath tickling white-gold strands against a pale neck).
"I don't want a repeat performance because nothing ever happened."
A hiss of pain as Potter's foot landed a hit on his shin, and then Draco was using the change in movement to his advantage, hooking his unharmed leg behind Potter's calf, immobilizing that particular limb while at the same time pulling the other boy inadvertently closer.
"So you keep saying," came the harsh reply, and he slammed Potter's back roughly against the wooden door, using every available portion of his body to keep him pinned there. "I'm beginning to wonder who, precisely, you're attempting to convince here."
The words, though soft, were spoken with a fierce, challenging sort of intensity, and he could see the green of Potter's eyes now, standing out even in the darkness.
A gasp was torn from Harry's throat as pain laced itself all through the upper half of his body, immobilized by the legs entangled with his own and a solid weight against his chest. He grabbed at the arms that kept him from moving, digging his nails in and gripping on tightly, trying to force a weak spot into Malfoy's defences.
He pressed his body closer, tried to push Malfoy (and contact and touch) away from him, green eyes flashing defiance and infuriation while he locked eyes with what he knew would have been silver-grey if they were in the light.
"There was nothing. We had nothing," Harry began, speaking through clenched teeth. "Therefore nothing happened."
There would be bruises on his arms the following morning, Draco was sure. The sharp pain shooting up his arms was almost enough to make him let go. And he would have (should have), because what, exactly, was he trying to accomplish here, anyway?
The question gave him pause. His grip loosened, just slightly, but his hips remained in place, still immobilizing the lower half of Potter's body.
And then fingertips were brushing against the curve of Potter's jaw, tracing, following the line of it down to his chin. The touch itself took Draco by surprise (when had he moved his hand?), but he did nothing to stop it. Instead, he tilted his head to one side, just a fraction, and ran a thumb lightly over Potter's lower lip, the touch almost ... thoughtful.
The gentle touch of fingertips gliding down his jaw made Harry stop moving, tense up and hitch his breath in an act of uncertainty against the unexpected movement. His grip on Malfoy's arms loosened as confusion clouded his face; waited for a punch or kick (or some sort of pain), but nothing came.
Draco Malfoy, for once in his life, was not trying to hurt Harry Potter. But why not?
"What," Harry breathed out, a whisper that was a sigh that was a flutter of syllables on air as a finger -- thumb? -- caressed his lower lip, so light that it was like a phantom touch that didn't even exist. "What are you doing?"
Warm breath ghosted over his lips as Potter's voice jarred the silence. It couldn't have been above a whisper, really, but in the quiet darkness of the tiny closet it had seemed loud, almost obscenely so, a hushed trespass in that fragile state of in-between.
Draco paused, the pad of his thumb hovering over a full lower lip, halted in mid-caress.
"I don't really --" Too loud, the words were too loud, out of place among impenetrable shadows and mingled breaths and flickering heartbeats that shouldn't be moving quite so fast. "I don't know."
The words should have bothered him, should have unnerved him, should have made him pull away, but he couldn't tell where Potter's legs ended and where his began anymore, and sorting that out seemed like far too much trouble to go through just then.
He leaned closer (Why was he leaning closer? Wouldn't that just make the problem worse?), fingertips sliding, skittering, grazing along the bridge of Potter's nose, the arch of an eyebrow, threading through soft strands of hair.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"I --" A pause, and Harry could practically feel the heat coming off of Malfoy's body as he leaned closer (just a little closer now). The fluttering touches against his face made him relax, fingers unclenching the fabric that they grasped (he could push Malfoy away right now; could and the blonde would fall to the floor -- but he doesn't -- he thinks that he might catch Malfoy if he did), and driving all the tension away.
Hands weave themselves into his hair (Harry had always hated his hair; ugly and black like it swallowed wild shadows in the dark of night, but he might be able to tolerate it in this moment), brushed the strands away from his face, and he didn't know what to make of this.
Blonde hair on pale skin that seemed to stand out even in the dark (a light, he was like a light in the darkness), face softened with -- with something that he didn't know how to name, features smoothed over a pointed face (unmarred by its usual scowl), eyes that shone without their usual menace (without their usual hate) --
He let his eyes fall shut of their own accord. (Too much, it was too much.)
"I --" He stopped to wet suddenly dry lips. "No."
No.
They don't notice that the danger had long since passed.
--
Go to part II.
Summary: So this is what happened to Draco and Harry during the Halloween feast. Harry goes after Draco to try and get his cloak back before they are interrupted by one of the giants. And this is only part one. I'm serious.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
It certainly wasn't a useful holiday.
There were the flickering faces of carved pumpkins, for one, which Draco had always questioned, because, really, what on earth was so innately frightening about pumpkins? If anything about them was to be considered even remotely disturbing, it might have been the garish shade in which they came. Or the smell. Quite possibly the smell. Torched pumpkin had never been a particular favorite of his, and he wrinkled his nose, even then, at the thought.
A particularly grotesque slurping noise from somewhere to his right brought Draco's internal reverie to the holiday's second fault: The entire idea seemed to be centred around the concept of gorging oneself as much as humanly possible without actually arriving at the point of explosion.
Just minutes before, four long, wooden tables had emitted identical creaks as they became suddenly laden with every sort of sweet imaginable, including the detestably stubborn kind that insisted on getting stuck to one's molars with irritating tenacity. Any appetite Draco might have had had been entirely and irrevocably banished when Crabbe and Goyle launched their assault on the table (with a crazed swiftness that very well could qualify as the only frightening aspect of Halloween).
Lips thinned, curling downwards into a frown of acute distaste, and -- fuck. It still stung. A pink tongue darted out to swipe across the sore flesh of Draco's lower lip, the metallic, almost salty taste of the not-quite-healed cut annoyingly familiar.
Of their own volition, grey eyes flicked up to land on a head of unruly black hair.
The head that had the aforementioned black hair was currently feasting away at some turkey and, really, anything that he could grab before anyone else stole it from him (specifically Ron).
Halloween, in Harry's opinion, was a fantastic holiday. Any holiday was pretty awesome in Harry's opinion though. It was never about meaning for him (he had never really learned, nor cared after a while, about what they meant), it was about celebrating and being able to celebrate. No more looking through some tiny keyhole to catch a glimpse of what he could be doing with family and friends.
The lights from the many jack-o-lanterns filled the Great Hall with a warm glow, and Harry thought that the live bats were a nice touch (he laughed so hard when one flew at Ron and he had thought it was a spider).
He had a feeling that if it wasn't for the whole pain in his wrist every time he accidentally brushed against something (which was pretty much every second), he'd be having a blast right about now.
Oh, and the whole meaning behind the wrist. Because fuck, he really wanted his cloak back and he really wanted to punch Malfoy for --
Just. For everything. (He still didn't want to acknowledge that night.)
All of a sudden, Harry froze, flinched visibly as he felt a pair of eyes on him, watching him from afar.
Speaking of Malfoy.
Harry looked up, searching out the grey eyes across from him at the next table and glared.
The blonde, for his part, arched an amused eyebrow before feigning disinterest and looking away, a faint smirk curling his lips. He could feel the potency of Potter's scathing look like some tangible force boring into his skull and, as always, the reaction pleased him. It had always been terribly entertaining, pissing Potter off; he'd nearly perfected the art. But there was something reassuring in the knowledge that, despite whatever had transpired all those nights ago (over a month had past, now he thought about it), the charged enmity between them had remained unchanged.
In fact, not much had changed, and this was almost as great a relief as it was an irritation to Draco, because it was such a damned good excuse for Potter to act as if that entire period of time had never existed. Which would have been fine, really, except that fucking Potter still had his fucking wand (and his cloak, too, for that matter), and while Draco had been able to get away with replacing Crabbe's wand with a stick and taking the real thing for himself (the professors hardly suspected anything, seeing as Crabbe was incompetent at practicing most charms, anyway), he really wanted his sodding wand back.
And yet, he hadn't brought it up. He could have owled Potter. Cornered him, perhaps. But there was an underlying sense of challenge to it all, the sense that bringing The Incident (or, rather, the Series of Incidents) up would mean something similar to giving in and acknowledging that which they'd gotten so good at utterly ignoring.
If Potter wanted to be a stubborn prick, that was fine. But Draco sure as hell wasn't going to be the one to cave first.
An odd choking noise pulled him away from his thoughts, and, oh, look, Goyle had actually managed to get pumpkin pie stuck in his throat. Emitting a weary sigh, Draco stood, eyes gazing heavenward before he pounded a firm fist onto Goyle's back, dislodging the offending piece of food.
Not waiting for a show of gratitude, he strode away from the table and toward the arching double doors, the students' incessant chatter and laughter following him on his way out of the Great Hall.
If Malfoy thought he could get away that easily, he had another thing coming for him.
The moment the blonde stood up and started to walk out, Harry had started to follow, stuffing the rest of his pumpkin pie in his mouth and quickly getting up from the table to run after him. He ignored the calls and questions that his friends called from behind him.
In a way, this was perfect. If he could get Malfoy alone, he'd be able to get the cloak away from him and at least some of his problems will be solved. Not having his cloak with him for almost a month made him antsy -- especially since it was Dumbledore who had told him to keep it with him at all times. He was stupid in letting Malfoy get it from him in the first place.
Of course, in another way, this could be some weird, elaborate trap of the Slytherin's. That didn't dawn onto Harry until after he stepped through the doors and out of the safety of the Great Hall, looking for a trace of where Malfoy would've went.
Grey eyes glinted in the flickering torchlight of the hall, a faint look of amusement registering on Draco's face as he watched the Gryffindor step out of the doorway. Draco remained silent for a moment or two, arms crossed over his chest, one shoulder leaning on the stone wall behind him.
"You're pitifully predictable, you know," he said after a few seconds' silence, taking a step out of the shadows that seemed to cling to the walls and corners like the awful, vine-like plants that his mother complained of back at the Manor. "Not very good form, that, is it?"
"And you keep hiding in the shadows like a lost little rat running away from something that's not even remotely scary," Harry countered, fire reflected in emerald green eyes and highlighting his determination. He would get his cloak back, and Malfoy wouldn't outwit him. "That's not very good form either."
He took a quick glance around him, just to make sure there weren't any surprises waiting for him when he least expected it, and then turned his gaze back onto Malfoy. "What do you want?"
A soft chuff of derisive laughter.
"It's called stealth, Potter. You should give it a go sometime," he retorted dryly, piercing grey meeting flashing green, refusing to look away. Then, matter-of-factly, "You're the one who followed me out here. What do you want?"
Harry rolled his eyes, breaking eye contact with Malfoy. He didn't much care for staring contests. "You knew I was going to follow you. That means you want something too. And I'm fairly sure you know what I want."
Smirking at that small victory, Draco lowered his hands to his sides, taking several steps toward the other boy until they were standing a few feet apart.
"As a matter of fact, I do," he said, determination in the upward tilt of his chin. "Where the fuck are you keeping my wand and my cloak?"
"Where the fuck are you keeping my cloak?" Harry retaliated, taking a step back to keep the distance between them.
Draco feigned a look of vague surprise.
"What, you didn't get the ashes I owled you?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in a look of innocence.
The urge to hit Malfoy was making itself known to Harry. He wondered, if he hit the blonde in the face, would he make that cut open again? (And it was with satisfaction that Harry noted that the wound he had inflicted on Malfoy still hadn't healed yet. Fucking showed him for trying and succeeding at what he had tried to do.)
"I didn't, actually," he replied coolly.
Green eyes flashed, and Draco sensed a change in the air between them, Potter's anger charging the atmosphere, making it tense. This only caused his smirk to widen.
"Mm. Not my problem, is it?" A thoughtful tilt of his head, almost mocking, and then his expression was sobering, gaze hardening. "Give me back my wand, Potter."
His hand twitched, wanting to reach into the pocket of his robes for his replacement wand, but Draco resisted the urge, waiting.
"No cloak, no wand, Malfoy."
Harry clenched his fist and narrowed his eyes at Malfoy. They were going to do this on his terms.
Draco's lips thinned, forming a straight line as he regarded him, all glaring determination. He was almost tempted to say yes, just because, well, it was reasonable, and he wanted his wand back, damn it, but then --
But then this was Potter, and Draco had never exactly learned or cared for the art of compromise.
"I don't know, Potter," he began, a deliberate drawl dragging out every syllable. "I could always get the staff to make you give it back. A student has a right to their own wand. An invisibility cloak, however -- the Ministry could have a thing or two to say about that, you know, especially since it's down in your records that you've used it to sneak out after hours."
That statement stopped Harry in his tracks.
He couldn't afford the Ministry finding out, because that would generate too many questions that had too many answers that he wouldn't -- shouldn't give. And he knew straight away that Dumbledore wouldn't want him to get caught up in something like that (he shouldn't have let down his guard and let Malfoy take his cloak in the first place).
Shit, he thought, followed by, fucking Malfoy and his fucking Slytherin ways --
Though, hang on. Harry had told himself that he would outwit Malfoy. And to do that, he would need to outwit a Slytherin.
Think like a Slytherin, Harry. What are they like? They're cowards, first of all.
Oh. Hm.
"Do you really want to go through all that trouble, Malfoy?" Harry said, trying to mask the urgency he felt. "Get the Ministry involved, get the professors involved, get Dumbledore involved. Who are they going to believe? Me, or a Death Eater's son?" A challenging light shone in his eyes. "Wouldn't it just be best to get your wand as quickly as possible, with the least amount of trouble?"
A muscle twitched in his jaw, but otherwise, Draco remained unchanged, gaze level and unrelenting. They were nearly the same height, Draco being only an inch or two taller, but he used that to his advantage, looking down the straight ridge of his nose at him.
"First of all," he began, taking a step toward Potter, "it isn't you or I who they'd have to believe, is it? Records, Potty. School records. They rather speak for themselves."
A brief pause.
"And secondly," another step, "isn't your side all about goodness and compassion?" A faint sneer accompanied the mocking lilt of his tone. "As far as the Ministry knows, as far as your barn pot Headmaster knows, I haven't done anything. Wouldn't be sporting to use what my father's done against me, now, would it?"
"I don't have school records that prove I have an invisibility cloak," Harry glared, not at all intimidated by the extra height between them -- he could still take Malfoy down anyway.
His hand quickly went to his wand, though he didn't draw it out just yet. Something in the way Malfoy had said his second point put him on the defensive. "Are you saying that you're on the other side?"
Draco pointedly ignored Potter's question.
"Oh, no?" he asked, arching an eyebrow. "All those times you've been caught out after hours -- Filch would be only too ready to attest to your having an invisibility cloak, as would I, as would half of Slytherin house. For a start."
Harry swore, felt anger bubbling under his skin, and he was going to kill Malfoy one day. He just knew it.
"So what the fuck do you want?" he demanded, exasperated and tired. "I'm sick of your fucking games. What do you want in exchange for my cloak, then, if it's not your wand?"
White teeth flashed as Draco's lips twitched into a sudden, sharp-edged smirk.
"To piss you off, mostly," he replied matter-of-factly. His voice took on a transparent sort of innocence. "Why, is it working?"
"Yes," Harry stated with a scowl. "It is. So give it back."
A short-lived pause, and then Draco was stepping forward, giving Potter a firm push backward. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway?
"Make me."
Harry felt himself falter and fall, landing painfully onto his backside and was this close to hitting his head as well if his reflexes hadn't kicked in right at that moment, hands sprawling backwards onto the cold, stone floor to catch his weight.
Malfoy was exceptionally tall from this point of view.
And that was the last straw.
"Fuck off, Malfoy," Harry hissed, scrambled to his feet and was all rage and indignant fury directed at this bastard of a twat who had to make this so difficult (had to make his life so miserable) even when he had tried to compromise with him.
Green eyes flashed, lit up with a temper that felt like it would explode if he didn't somehow hurt Malfoy now and here -- and what did the blonde take him for?
He took the remaining steps between them and, soon enough, had Malfoy's collar between clenched fists, dragged his face down so they were level with each other and --
And.
-- And there was a loud bang echoing through the halls as if the castle was threatening to fall down (could that ever happen?), walls looking like they were shaking and the floor beneath them seemed to shudder through their shoes and up their spines (activated their fears and seemed to slow down time).
"What the f --" Harry began, but was cut off by a distant roar coming from the hallway to their left (the one that led to the entrance, Harry idly thought), all animistic terror and enraged defiance of a beast that didn't belong.
The sound of running feet (huge, they sounded huge) bounced off the walls and down the corridors at a rate that told Harry that whatever was coming was going to be big. It was going to be big and it was coming this way and it would be here soon.
Sirens seemed to scream into Harry's ear, flashing red behind his eyes and he knew by an instinct that had saved his life more times than it should have, that he and Malfoy were in danger.
Shit, he thought, and there was panic in his eyes as he glanced around for some sort of protection, trying to grasp onto some sort of plan. The doors to the Great Hall were too far away (when did the distance widen?) and the corridors were bare. Not even a piece of haunted armour graced these halls, and if they did, they had probably run off by now.
But then -- there. A door that lead somewhere and maybe whatever it was that was coming would pass it by.
Without thinking, Harry quickly let go of Draco and grasped his hand, ran to the door and tried to wrench it open.
It was locked.
"Alohomora!" Harry shouted, took out his wand and practically jabbed the lock with it (that spell had never failed him before). The tiny sound of a click signified the door's opening, and Harry wasted no time in opening it and shoving the two of them inside (it was a closet, a fucking closet, but it would have to do).
Before Harry closed the door and locked it (accidentally dropped his wand outside in the process, but that didn't register because they didn't have the time to worry about it right now), he caught a glimpse of a small mountain with a grey boulder on its head that was the creature screeching at the top of its lungs and lumbering towards them.
"Potter, that is my foot, you sod," came the sharp accusation, followed by a hiss of pain.
The room -- closet, leave it to Potter to choose a fucking closet to hide in -- was utterly dark, so much so that Draco couldn't really tell when his eyes were open and when they were not. He blinked a few times, in rapid succession, as if doing so would clear his vision; make the darkness less absolute, but to no avail. Body heat and the press of a sharp something -- elbow, perhaps -- digging into his ribcage were the only things indicating where the other boy was.
"Nice choice of accommodations, by the way," he went on, attempting to get into some sort of position that didn't involve the inconvenient squashing of any of his body parts. "Very -- low key. Though it's a bit of a tight fit, don't you think? And I swear I just felt something crawling on my leg, what the fuck -- hang on, that's just you. Potter, are you feeling up my leg?"
The mocking scorn in his tone quite effectively masked the fact that his mind was racing. Because, and he would have been glad to have been corrected if he was wrong, that sort of screeching just didn't happen on a normal day. Or on any day, for that matter; his ears were still ringing from it, or perhaps those were just the reverberations coming from the other side of the door, where the thing was (what the fuck was it, anyway? the screeching could have passed for a miniature dragon, but there'd been no fire, had there, so a troll, perhaps? a fucking huge, monstrous, incredibly pissed off troll?), and the walls were shaking, and he was stuck here, hiding in a closet with Potter, of all people.
Draco hated Halloween.
"YES, Malfoy, I am obviously feeling up your leg!" Harry half shouted over the piercing whatever echoing from behind the door, glowering into the darkness at what he thought was Malfoy as he threw up his hands in irritation (he might have hit Malfoy in the head, but he didn't quite care).
Adrenaline raced through his blood, his heart making a deafening beat against his ears, and leave it to Malfoy to be a fucking ungrateful bastard right after he could have just saved both of their lives. "Is that fucking all you can think about right now? We're trying to survive because there is a raging giant the size of dragon stampeding down the other side of this closet and all you can hope for is a grope?"
The darkness of his vision quickly faded as his eyesight got used to the surrounding shadows that crowded in with the two boys (he was used to being in closets, after all), and pretty soon he could somewhat see the outline of Malfoy. The blonde didn't seem to be able to see yet himself, so he took the liberties to getting them both into a position where they could stand without touching each other too much (warmth next to warmth and panting breaths that were so close and yet so far away).
"Just shut up for a second, will you?" Harry snapped, and he swore, if Malfoy uttered even one word before the danger had passed, he would shut the git up himself.
Draco raised one eyebrow in the increasingly stuffy darkness, and he could just imagine the look on Potter's face just then. Cheeks flushed from anger or exertion or, most likely in that particular scenario, both. Green eyes flashing with barely restrained exasperation. Lips parted, if the heavy sound of his breathing was any indication.
"Excitable little fellow, aren't you?" he asked dryly, a sharp-edged smirk causing his lips to twitch upward. His eyes were beginning to adjust, the faint outline of Potter's lean frame just barely discernible in the dark.
Draco became vaguely aware of the fact that they were in new positions now, these fairly more comfortable than before in the sense that there were no pointy limbs digging into vital organs, but rather the opposite in the sense that now it was outer thighs pressing against inner thighs, harsh breaths mingling, fluttering white-blonde-raven-black fringe (though it didn't really make a difference, did it? everything was dark here), adrenaline pounding through their veins, pounding in their temples, hearts pounding against ribcages that were deliciously (perilously) close.
Swallowing against the dryness in his throat, Draco shifted, not quite sure whether he was trying to distance himself from Potter (a tantalizing heat now) or bring them closer together. Because it was different now. There was no revenge, no muttered spell, no ropes, no coercing, no ... no excuses, certainly.
Now it was just him and Potter and the fucking migraine inducing giant (that was what Potter had said, wasn't it?) rampaging just outside their makeshift hiding place.
"All I'm saying, Potter," Draco went on, disregarding Potter's demand for silence. (Because since when had he heeded any of Potter's demands, really? Sodding and never.) "Is that if you really wanted a repeat performance of last time, you hardly had to go through all the trouble of sneaking a giant into the castle. You could have, you know. Begged. Grovelled. Done a spot of drooling, as long as my robes remained unsullied."
He wondered, vaguely, how long it would take before Potter finally snapped.
Harry kicked Malfoy as hard as he could without hurting himself in the process, ignorant of the fact that he was pressing his body forward, bringing heat closer, as he brought his mouth to Malfoy's ear so he didn't have to shout (breath tickling white-gold strands against a pale neck).
"I don't want a repeat performance because nothing ever happened."
A hiss of pain as Potter's foot landed a hit on his shin, and then Draco was using the change in movement to his advantage, hooking his unharmed leg behind Potter's calf, immobilizing that particular limb while at the same time pulling the other boy inadvertently closer.
"So you keep saying," came the harsh reply, and he slammed Potter's back roughly against the wooden door, using every available portion of his body to keep him pinned there. "I'm beginning to wonder who, precisely, you're attempting to convince here."
The words, though soft, were spoken with a fierce, challenging sort of intensity, and he could see the green of Potter's eyes now, standing out even in the darkness.
A gasp was torn from Harry's throat as pain laced itself all through the upper half of his body, immobilized by the legs entangled with his own and a solid weight against his chest. He grabbed at the arms that kept him from moving, digging his nails in and gripping on tightly, trying to force a weak spot into Malfoy's defences.
He pressed his body closer, tried to push Malfoy (and contact and touch) away from him, green eyes flashing defiance and infuriation while he locked eyes with what he knew would have been silver-grey if they were in the light.
"There was nothing. We had nothing," Harry began, speaking through clenched teeth. "Therefore nothing happened."
There would be bruises on his arms the following morning, Draco was sure. The sharp pain shooting up his arms was almost enough to make him let go. And he would have (should have), because what, exactly, was he trying to accomplish here, anyway?
The question gave him pause. His grip loosened, just slightly, but his hips remained in place, still immobilizing the lower half of Potter's body.
And then fingertips were brushing against the curve of Potter's jaw, tracing, following the line of it down to his chin. The touch itself took Draco by surprise (when had he moved his hand?), but he did nothing to stop it. Instead, he tilted his head to one side, just a fraction, and ran a thumb lightly over Potter's lower lip, the touch almost ... thoughtful.
The gentle touch of fingertips gliding down his jaw made Harry stop moving, tense up and hitch his breath in an act of uncertainty against the unexpected movement. His grip on Malfoy's arms loosened as confusion clouded his face; waited for a punch or kick (or some sort of pain), but nothing came.
Draco Malfoy, for once in his life, was not trying to hurt Harry Potter. But why not?
"What," Harry breathed out, a whisper that was a sigh that was a flutter of syllables on air as a finger -- thumb? -- caressed his lower lip, so light that it was like a phantom touch that didn't even exist. "What are you doing?"
Warm breath ghosted over his lips as Potter's voice jarred the silence. It couldn't have been above a whisper, really, but in the quiet darkness of the tiny closet it had seemed loud, almost obscenely so, a hushed trespass in that fragile state of in-between.
Draco paused, the pad of his thumb hovering over a full lower lip, halted in mid-caress.
"I don't really --" Too loud, the words were too loud, out of place among impenetrable shadows and mingled breaths and flickering heartbeats that shouldn't be moving quite so fast. "I don't know."
The words should have bothered him, should have unnerved him, should have made him pull away, but he couldn't tell where Potter's legs ended and where his began anymore, and sorting that out seemed like far too much trouble to go through just then.
He leaned closer (Why was he leaning closer? Wouldn't that just make the problem worse?), fingertips sliding, skittering, grazing along the bridge of Potter's nose, the arch of an eyebrow, threading through soft strands of hair.
"Do you want me to stop?"
"I --" A pause, and Harry could practically feel the heat coming off of Malfoy's body as he leaned closer (just a little closer now). The fluttering touches against his face made him relax, fingers unclenching the fabric that they grasped (he could push Malfoy away right now; could and the blonde would fall to the floor -- but he doesn't -- he thinks that he might catch Malfoy if he did), and driving all the tension away.
Hands weave themselves into his hair (Harry had always hated his hair; ugly and black like it swallowed wild shadows in the dark of night, but he might be able to tolerate it in this moment), brushed the strands away from his face, and he didn't know what to make of this.
Blonde hair on pale skin that seemed to stand out even in the dark (a light, he was like a light in the darkness), face softened with -- with something that he didn't know how to name, features smoothed over a pointed face (unmarred by its usual scowl), eyes that shone without their usual menace (without their usual hate) --
He let his eyes fall shut of their own accord. (Too much, it was too much.)
"I --" He stopped to wet suddenly dry lips. "No."
No.
They don't notice that the danger had long since passed.
--
Go to part II.