He’s giving me that look like he thinks I’m overreacting, and what’s that about when he’s such a dramatic bitch and I’m sitting over here actually being nagged to death by my friends and harrassed by Ravenclaws that couldn’t flirt their way out of a moderated sized hatchback.
He steps right into my space like he owns it. “Floppy,” he drawls. He reaches for my face and I can’t tell what he’s doing but apparently I’m going to let him anyway, and I end up with those long pale fingers cupping my chin and his grey eyes pinning me where I stand. His touch is soft and cool and I wonder if I could shake it off. If I want to. “Calm down,” he purrs, soft, so only I can hear him.
It occurs to me then that there’s no one else here to hear anyway. We’re alone in the common room, which almost never happens, or at least hasn’t happened before. More importantly, we’re alone and Draco is touching my face and— and he’s just standing there still, looking at me. He’s very close. His gaze flicks from one of my eyes to the other. Drops to my mouth for not even a second, half-hidden by a blink.
“Okay,” I say, but I think it might be impossible because my insides feel a bit queer and I might throw up or something.
“Breathe, Potter,” he sighs. “Think happy thoughts.”
I can’t remember how to do either of those things so I close my eyes, inhale, worry about exhaling all over him and what I had for lunch and how I should’ve brushed my teeth before I came back except of course I couldn’t because my toothbrush is in my dorm, not in the fucking corridor and why the fuck is he still touching me? And why does it feel like this, like my heart will beat so fast it explodes and I might just combust in a poof of red and gold coloured dust like the worst, most cowardly, Gryffindor in the world.
“Is it working?” he asks after a moment. “I’d hate to have to do something drastic.”
Five percent of me has a really keen idea of what that something drastic might be and I give it the reins before the other ninety-five can ruin it. “You might as well try it,” I say. “Can’t hurt.”
“If you insist,” he says, and it’s barely words, a whisper of breath across my lips and and a rustle of fabric and my chin is tilted up and he’s on me. His lips press soft against my own. His hand holds me still. He waits.
My heart is gone. Exploded or stopped, I don’t know. I can’t focus on anything but the places where we touch, and they’re too passive, too small, too polite. I step in, typical Gryffindor, and push at him, opening my mouth under his. I think I feel him gasp. Then his tongue. His hand snaking around my waist, pulling my hips closer. Reality disappears slowly. I don’t realise we’re moving til he stumbles and knocks against the couch and we break apart, panting for breath.
“Did that work, then?” he huffs a laugh, nervous.
“Not at all,” I say. “Try again.”
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