(no subject)
*looks around at the slow and inexorable erosion of post!updates in the past month or so wincingly* (is wincingly a word?)
O wearying state of full-employment, see what large and gaping holes you have riven in my promises of regular updates!
The current state of posting is rather abysmal, isn't it ... gah. Given my Pavlovian-like tendencies to dive for the nearest warm!soft!friendly! surface after a harrowing day at work (oh trusty duvet, how I owe you my lifelong allegiance, your duck-feathered folds haven't failed me yet) I guess it isn't terribly surprising. *scuffs a guilty foot*
Well, looming cloud of work-related heebeejeebies notwithstanding, I'd like to post the working copy of the small and humble beginnings of a new fic, where Harry and Draco are flatmates, and Draco is gay and Harry is not ... yet.
*toddles off with a semi-appeased conscience*
The Education of one Rather Stubborn Git Harry Potter
::
His footsteps echoed behind him.
London was covered in a thin film of white, shoring up against grey buildings, turning to mush in dark corners. Draco passed a tired hand across grainy eyes as he hefted his briefcase, listening to the sound of his cloak flapping against his legs in the wind.
In the reddish twilight, the buildings surrounding the Ministry - ancient and crenellated - loomed like gargoyles.
It was a short walk from the Ministry to the flat - a walk that took him into the silent winding lanes of the old courts, where buildings leaned close enough to whisper to each other above the faint thrum of magic. The magic in these stones, relentless and inexorable, held together what should have crumbled long ago.
Draco sometimes wondered what excuse the Muggles came up with to explain away the magic evident all around them, interwoven like filigree into their ordinary lives. Walking in the growing dark, in the brief moments between home and work, he would see hordes of Muggles hunched into their overcoats, murmuring into something small and metallic.
They looked … oddly young. All Muggle men seemed to have cropped hair.
Draco supposed the average age of a pureblood wizard, taking into account their prolonged lifespans, was rather old. And with so many lost to the war -
The brisk wind, chilling his fingers, whipping the loose silk of his hair, dwindled to a sigh. Draco pursed his lips and watched the heels of a young Muggle woman clickety-clack around a corner, her scarf trailing behind her in wisps of grey.
As he reached the row of townhouses, stained white stone erect against the darkening clouds, the Muggle streetlights came on one by one, lengthening the shadows on the pavement like sparse stars.
At the junction of Gawain and Green Streets, beyond the listing, ramshackle Rose and Myrtle, Muggles saw a boarded-up corner shop; nonedescript, desolate. Wizards, on the other hand, saw gleaming a silver doorknob, tall mullioned windows and a half-flight of marble stairs.
Clutching his briefcase, feeling cold leather through the thin film of his gloves, Draco saw home and the light on in the drawing room.
::
As Dobby snippily relieved him of his cloak and briefcase, Draco caught sight of a package gleaming on the hall-table.
It was beautifully wrapped - plain cream paper with a gilt watermark, and a velvet bow in the palest of golds. Draco knew, without looking, that the box would contain a selection of the darkest, soft-centred chocolates, each slight variation - from pralines to brittle nut to sweet sticky caramel - like a dollop of sin.
His lips curved, even as his eyes flicked over towards the lit doorway.
Certain that noone was observing him, he allowed himself a moment to lay his hand on the smooth box, toying with the ribbon’s silken tassles.
This was the second time, on the tenth of December, that Harry had left a small token - gloves lined in fur, his favourite chocolates - for him to find.
They never spoke about it.
Listening to the tolling of the grandfather clock in the hallway, watching the waning light flicker through the blinds, Draco ran a fingertip across the slight grooves in heavy paper, and permitted himself a small grin.
Potter really was such a girly git.
::
Loosening the knot in his tie, Draco nudged the door open with a slippered foot.
The drawing room was his favourite in the flat. It had been his mother’s, and had been redecorated when the Malfoy residence passed into her hands after Lucius’ death, to bring in the light.
The deep green of the walls set off the cream furnishings and the light blonde of Draco’s hair, like verdant to quicksilver.
It also added a sheen to Potter’s bedhead, peeping from the side of Draco’s favourite chair like a black halo drifting over a nest of cushions.
Pausing in the doorway, Draco saw that Harry was asleep, and that his glasses were slowly slipping off his face. Dotted around him were Defense texts of varying shapes and sizes, and scattered scrolls of Harry’s still remarkably childish handwriting.
Tilting his head, Draco could divine The Curse of the Thwarted Hinkypunk still clutched against Harry’s stomach, rising and falling against a sleep-soft hand with each wuffling breath. Dobby had thoughtfully dimmed the lights, leaving just the glow from the fireplace and a table lamp.
With slow steps, Draco approached the dishevelled mess that was Potter, distractedly taking note of how half his face was hidden against a plush cushion, and the tip of his woolen slacks toed the rim of the carpet. Kneeling down, Draco leant into the crook of Harry’s neck and breathed, raising goosebumps.
Harry shivered. The rumpled collar of his dress shirt made a soft, slithering noise as he burrowed deeper into the folds of the chair.
Pressing his lips against Potter’s ear, almost touching skin, Draco murmured, ‘Time to wake up, sleeping beauty.’
Harry made a small, pitiful noise. His dark hair shifted slightly, like fronds underwater, before stilling.
Abandoning his inhibitions, Draco stuck his tongue out between his lips. Without pausing to think, he licked a slow, wet stripe from Harry’s sternum, peeking out from the loosened collar of his shirt, to the crook of his jaw. Harry tasted sweet, with a musky hint of sweat. His skin was soft and yielding, caught between Draco’s lips, and an inane Muggle saying - melts in your mouth, not in your hand - suddenly came to mind.
He watched a flush spread slowly across Harry’s cheek, and the slight arching of his neck as he groaned. Draco licked. Like a cat.
‘Sstoppit. D’aaco. Mm’sleep.’
Biting back his grin, Draco pressed a soft, discreet kiss on the tip of Harry’s chin. He watched under lowered lids as Harry slowly blinked himself awake, his body tensing. The glasses hanging off the tip of his nose made him look like a spinsterly librarian.
‘Morning, sweetheart.’ Harry wrinkled his nose at Draco’s sunny tone, and glared up at him from the safety of his cushions.
‘Mmmf.’
‘You’re sleeping in my chair.’ Draco pointed unnecessarily. ‘We’ve had a rather long conversation about which pieces of furniture belong to whom.’
Ignoring him, Harry leaned forward, causing a few cushions to tumble onto the floor, and scratched his neck distractedly.
‘What time’ssit? Why’re you making me up and … uurgh! Why’s my neck wet?’
Quickly, before Harry could react, Draco pecked him once, briefly, on the lips, before standing up and nonchalantly dusting off his trousers.
‘It’s Friday evening, twit, and we’re going out tonight. Greg’s found an amazing new place, apparently, and I’m not leaving you behind to gather mould along with all your tatty old books.’
He pretended not to see the stain of a blush cresting high atop Harry’s cheekbones.
Harry cleared his throat, casting a suspicious look Draco’s way. One hand was - unconsciously, Draco was sure - rubbing at the spot under his chin where Draco’s mouth had lingered for a brief suck.
‘Okay. Gimme half an hour.’ The cushions fluffed up as he flopped back against the chair, his head tipping back, almost acquisciently, as he watched Draco make his way out of the room. ‘Poncy git.’
Draco flashed him an amused grin, one hand braced against the door. Taking in Harry’s high colour and the sheen of his eyes against the green of his mother’s room, he murmured, ‘And you love me for it,’ in the brief moment before disappearing.
::