'(It's Impossible) To Catch Lightning'
Title: (It's Impossible) To Catch Lightning
Author: Signe
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Summary and notes: He needs to remember one reason, just one, why Draco is a blot on his life. Written for the contrelamontre 'Perfection' challenge.
*
Sometimes Harry looks at Malfoy and all he sees are flaws.
That is good. That is how the universe is meant to be. Malfoy is an arrogant, whinging git. And Harry hates him, naturally, because who wouldn't hate a spoilt little brat like Malfoy?
*
A splodge of black ink drops off the end of his quill. The inkpot is nearly empty, and the ink is old and thick. It falls on the almost blank parchment (that should have at least a foot of homework on it by now, but doesn't), spreading very slowly, lethargically. It's right in the centre of the paper: an angry looking blot that spoils the whole parchment. He stares at the sheet, but the stain is all that he can see.
*
Malfoy's flaws distract Harry. They grate on him constantly, no matter what he's doing.
He sits in the furthest, quietest corner of the library and tries to concentrate on his essay on the safe use of Ashwinder eggs. He's carefully torn off the ruined section of parchment and determines to write an essay that will, if not earn Snape's approval, at least not get house points docked. He starts to write about the method of tracking Ashwinders and how to find their eggs, then six inches later realises that his essay has degenerated into 'Malfoy's hair is girly'.
As though he hasn't far better reasons to hate Malfoy.
*
Proximity is irrelevant.
He has no idea where Malfoy is right now. He won't check, even though the Marauders Map is slipped inside the back cover of his homework diary. He hasn't seen him since Care of Magical Creatures, fifth period. True, he heard him at dinnertime, but he took great care to sit with his back to the Slytherin table, pushing in front of Ron and Neville (they'd all dashed late and out of breath into the Great Hall) in order to get a safe seat.
So, now, Malfoy could be anywhere. He could be somewhere in the library (that close), in the Slytherin dungeons, sneaking around the school - anywhere.
But Harry is distracted, no matter where he is, or where Malfoy is.
*
Malfoy's flaws are countless, as many and as uncountable as the stars Professor Sinestra makes Harry study. He'd like to think that he pays more attention to studying the stars, dull as he finds them, but he'd be lying to himself. He can reel off a list of Malfoy's worse faults, and his minor ones, all the middling ones in between and then add petty irritations to the catalogue, with no effort at all. But he knows he can't name more than one star in the Canis Major constellation (how could he forget Sirius?), whereas he can name all thirteen stars in the Draco constellation. It's the only constellation he remembers, it's easy: Dsiban is D for Death Eater (or dunce or dickhead) and Gianfar is G for git and Arrakis is A for asshole and so on. It's the only time Malfoy's faults actually come in handy.
*
Malfoy's voice is too deep for him now - it sounds idiotic booming out of his slight frame. Which is why Harry can't help but jump each time he hears Malfoy speak. It's yet another thing that bugs him about Malfoy - it was bad enough hearing him when he could still sing soprano without the aid of a kick to the balls, but now his voice is just plain wrong.
His voice and its wrongness goes onto the major flaw list - it's far too annoying to simply be considered a minor irritation. Harry has to hear it all the time - in class and across the Great Hall at meal times and on the Quidditch pitch and in the corridors.
Malfoy talks far too much. If Harry were paranoid, which he isn't (he shrugs - after all, they really are out to get him), he might think that Malfoy does it just to annoy him, that he prattles on about worthless nonsense to his idiot friends just to drive Harry mad.
*
Sometimes, all Harry can see when he thinks of Draco is the beauty. And that is much, much worse.
Even in the dark, with his eyes so tightly closed that his head aches, he can see Draco, see-feel long fingers lingering and butterfly-soft lips kissing, see-hear that deep voice whispering in his ear, see-taste that winter-pale skin under his tongue. Draco's soap scent lingers - it's not like the faux-posh stuff Aunt Petunia buys when it's on sale in Waitrose, or the cheap white bars that Hogwarts provides - it's multilayered and tastes of clean herbs and summer. The voice is no longer too deep, the fingers aren't too long and linger exactly where Harry wants them to, and the skin is flawlessly pale. Even the tinge of soap and sweat is good, not overwhelming, just faint and distinctly Draco.
*
He tries again to list all the things he hates about Draco. Well, not all, but just a few. Or even one. One would do. One thing, that's all he asks, that he be able to remember one good reason why Draco is a blot on his life, why this, this-thing they haven't got between them (because it's not real, it's only true in the dark, and that doesn't count, does it?), why this shouldn't be happening.
Because if he could remember just one item from his lengthy catalogue, then he could stop it. He would be able to open his eyes, and the link between his brain and his mouth would reconnect and he'd scream no, instead of the nonsense that rolls out when his eyes are closed and Draco has one hand sliding tightly up and down his cock while the other slides over his hipbone, and it's oh-so fucking good and he thinks he might be begging for more and telling Draco's that he's god which is not what he's supposed to say. And Draco's hair is falling against his cheek as gently as a dandelion puffball and he thinks maybe he hated Draco's hair once but he has no idea why. For every bite mark Draco leaves in the sweaty crook of his neck, for every twist of that talented hand, Harry gasps more nonsense and is even further away from remembering.
*
He has a list, written down, three feet of parchment in small writing, and that was only the start. It would have been twice the length if it hadn't got late and hard to write by the light of one guttering candle.
But he can't recall a single word he wrote - in the dark he can't see clearly, he can't read foolish parchments, can't think why not. Reasons flash as bright and quick as lightning, but as impossible to catch or hold. And, right now, as he groans and writhes in Draco's touch, closer and closer until he has no idea why he wanted to remember anything, it doesn't matter.
@~~ Happy Valentine's Day @~~
Author: Signe
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: R
Summary and notes: He needs to remember one reason, just one, why Draco is a blot on his life. Written for the contrelamontre 'Perfection' challenge.
*
Sometimes Harry looks at Malfoy and all he sees are flaws.
That is good. That is how the universe is meant to be. Malfoy is an arrogant, whinging git. And Harry hates him, naturally, because who wouldn't hate a spoilt little brat like Malfoy?
*
A splodge of black ink drops off the end of his quill. The inkpot is nearly empty, and the ink is old and thick. It falls on the almost blank parchment (that should have at least a foot of homework on it by now, but doesn't), spreading very slowly, lethargically. It's right in the centre of the paper: an angry looking blot that spoils the whole parchment. He stares at the sheet, but the stain is all that he can see.
*
Malfoy's flaws distract Harry. They grate on him constantly, no matter what he's doing.
He sits in the furthest, quietest corner of the library and tries to concentrate on his essay on the safe use of Ashwinder eggs. He's carefully torn off the ruined section of parchment and determines to write an essay that will, if not earn Snape's approval, at least not get house points docked. He starts to write about the method of tracking Ashwinders and how to find their eggs, then six inches later realises that his essay has degenerated into 'Malfoy's hair is girly'.
As though he hasn't far better reasons to hate Malfoy.
*
Proximity is irrelevant.
He has no idea where Malfoy is right now. He won't check, even though the Marauders Map is slipped inside the back cover of his homework diary. He hasn't seen him since Care of Magical Creatures, fifth period. True, he heard him at dinnertime, but he took great care to sit with his back to the Slytherin table, pushing in front of Ron and Neville (they'd all dashed late and out of breath into the Great Hall) in order to get a safe seat.
So, now, Malfoy could be anywhere. He could be somewhere in the library (that close), in the Slytherin dungeons, sneaking around the school - anywhere.
But Harry is distracted, no matter where he is, or where Malfoy is.
*
Malfoy's flaws are countless, as many and as uncountable as the stars Professor Sinestra makes Harry study. He'd like to think that he pays more attention to studying the stars, dull as he finds them, but he'd be lying to himself. He can reel off a list of Malfoy's worse faults, and his minor ones, all the middling ones in between and then add petty irritations to the catalogue, with no effort at all. But he knows he can't name more than one star in the Canis Major constellation (how could he forget Sirius?), whereas he can name all thirteen stars in the Draco constellation. It's the only constellation he remembers, it's easy: Dsiban is D for Death Eater (or dunce or dickhead) and Gianfar is G for git and Arrakis is A for asshole and so on. It's the only time Malfoy's faults actually come in handy.
*
Malfoy's voice is too deep for him now - it sounds idiotic booming out of his slight frame. Which is why Harry can't help but jump each time he hears Malfoy speak. It's yet another thing that bugs him about Malfoy - it was bad enough hearing him when he could still sing soprano without the aid of a kick to the balls, but now his voice is just plain wrong.
His voice and its wrongness goes onto the major flaw list - it's far too annoying to simply be considered a minor irritation. Harry has to hear it all the time - in class and across the Great Hall at meal times and on the Quidditch pitch and in the corridors.
Malfoy talks far too much. If Harry were paranoid, which he isn't (he shrugs - after all, they really are out to get him), he might think that Malfoy does it just to annoy him, that he prattles on about worthless nonsense to his idiot friends just to drive Harry mad.
*
Sometimes, all Harry can see when he thinks of Draco is the beauty. And that is much, much worse.
Even in the dark, with his eyes so tightly closed that his head aches, he can see Draco, see-feel long fingers lingering and butterfly-soft lips kissing, see-hear that deep voice whispering in his ear, see-taste that winter-pale skin under his tongue. Draco's soap scent lingers - it's not like the faux-posh stuff Aunt Petunia buys when it's on sale in Waitrose, or the cheap white bars that Hogwarts provides - it's multilayered and tastes of clean herbs and summer. The voice is no longer too deep, the fingers aren't too long and linger exactly where Harry wants them to, and the skin is flawlessly pale. Even the tinge of soap and sweat is good, not overwhelming, just faint and distinctly Draco.
*
He tries again to list all the things he hates about Draco. Well, not all, but just a few. Or even one. One would do. One thing, that's all he asks, that he be able to remember one good reason why Draco is a blot on his life, why this, this-thing they haven't got between them (because it's not real, it's only true in the dark, and that doesn't count, does it?), why this shouldn't be happening.
Because if he could remember just one item from his lengthy catalogue, then he could stop it. He would be able to open his eyes, and the link between his brain and his mouth would reconnect and he'd scream no, instead of the nonsense that rolls out when his eyes are closed and Draco has one hand sliding tightly up and down his cock while the other slides over his hipbone, and it's oh-so fucking good and he thinks he might be begging for more and telling Draco's that he's god which is not what he's supposed to say. And Draco's hair is falling against his cheek as gently as a dandelion puffball and he thinks maybe he hated Draco's hair once but he has no idea why. For every bite mark Draco leaves in the sweaty crook of his neck, for every twist of that talented hand, Harry gasps more nonsense and is even further away from remembering.
*
He has a list, written down, three feet of parchment in small writing, and that was only the start. It would have been twice the length if it hadn't got late and hard to write by the light of one guttering candle.
But he can't recall a single word he wrote - in the dark he can't see clearly, he can't read foolish parchments, can't think why not. Reasons flash as bright and quick as lightning, but as impossible to catch or hold. And, right now, as he groans and writhes in Draco's touch, closer and closer until he has no idea why he wanted to remember anything, it doesn't matter.
@~~ Happy Valentine's Day @~~