It’s the small touches that he craves for, the light, brief trace of the back of his hand rubbing against the back of hers; skin that should be anything but soft and desirable, and not belong to someone he despises as much as envies. Because he does envy her, try as he might not to. He envies the way she doesn’t seem to want to touch him as he wants to touch her.
He blames his father, his mother, his whole bloody family.
Mudbloods are unclean, they said. Their blood is black and their skin feels like scales. They hide it well by pretending to be one of us, by pretending to be magical. But, they are different, Draco. Never forget that. They are unworthy of magic, unlike you and me.
It was one fateful day when his hand had touched hers, and all he has wanted since was to touch her again, and again, and again. First in disbelief and then for a reason he hasn’t accepted yet.
Skin so soft that it sends a shiver up his spine, hands so delicate that he wonders what it will feel like to have her fingers entangled in his hair, lips so full of smiles that kissing her must be so… different. Mudblood lips, he reminds himself, although that doesn’t stop him from staring, from wanting, from craving someone he has been taught is all wrong.
It doesn’t stop him from antagonising her, stepping so close so that her chest brushes his. It doesn’t stop him from hissing vile things at her, gripping her arm so that she has to listen. It doesn’t stop him from pinning her against the dungeon wall during one of their bickering Prefect duties and snogging her so thoroughly that her fingers tighten on his lapels and she pulls him closer and closer.
The surge to be flush against her is a strong one, her tongue causing a shiver to travel up his spine. But she moans, and he grinds against her, and it takes a sudden noise from the irritating Mrs Norris for them to break apart with heaving breaths. Her eyes are dark, just as is his, and all he can think about is how much he wants to touch her again. How much he wants to let his hands roam across her body and bury his fingers in her hair and kiss her so deeply that he forgets his name.
She leaves first, and he leaves second and they don’t speak of it again. But when they are alone, even as they try not to be, the kisses become longer and so much deeper until he forgets that he shouldn’t and only that he can. Because he craves her more than anything, and it elates him that she craves his touch, too.
It’s the small touches that he craves for, the light, brief trace of the back of his hand rubbing against the back of hers; skin that should be anything but soft and desirable, and not belong to someone he despises as much as envies. Because he does envy her, try as he might not to. He envies the way she doesn’t seem to want to touch him as he wants to touch her.
He blames his father, his mother, his whole bloody family.
Mudbloods are unclean, they said. Their blood is black and their skin feels like scales. They hide it well by pretending to be one of us, by pretending to be magical. But, they are different, Draco. Never forget that. They are unworthy of magic, unlike you and me.
It was one fateful day when his hand had touched hers, and all he has wanted since was to touch her again, and again, and again. First in disbelief and then for a reason he hasn’t accepted yet.
Skin so soft that it sends a shiver up his spine, hands so delicate that he wonders what it will feel like to have her fingers entangled in his hair, lips so full of smiles that kissing her must be so… different. Mudblood lips, he reminds himself, although that doesn’t stop him from staring, from wanting, from craving someone he has been taught is all wrong.
It doesn’t stop him from antagonising her, stepping so close so that her chest brushes his. It doesn’t stop him from hissing vile things at her, gripping her arm so that she has to listen. It doesn’t stop him from pinning her against the dungeon wall during one of their bickering Prefect duties and snogging her so thoroughly that her fingers tighten on his lapels and she pulls him closer and closer.
The surge to be flush against her is a strong one, her tongue causing a shiver to travel up his spine. But she moans, and he grinds against her, and it takes a sudden noise from the irritating Mrs Norris for them to break apart with heaving breaths. Her eyes are dark, just as is his, and all he can think about is how much he wants to touch her again. How much he wants to let his hands roam across her body and bury his fingers in her hair and kiss her so deeply that he forgets his name.
She leaves first, and he leaves second and they don’t speak of it again. But when they are alone, even as they try not to be, the kisses become longer and so much deeper until he forgets that he shouldn’t and only that he can. Because he craves her more than anything, and it elates him that she craves his touch, too.
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