laraF's nest

“I probably have to murder Diggory,” stated Draco with feigned boredom, glaring daggers at the Hufflepuff star pupil’s unassuming back.

“Isn’t stabbing that poor, innocent sausage to death enough?” Blaise was truly bored. He doodled a few incomprehensible notes into his Arithmancy homework and didn’t even glance Draco’s way. Draco tried not to take offense to that and missed with a mile.

“Excuse me for having an existential crisis about the love of my life being in a relationship with someone else than I, while you’re wasting your time with inconsequential things.”

It was hard to impress Blaise Zabini, alright.

“Can it wait a few minutes? This inconsequential thing is my pass for the next lesson, if you let me finish it, I’ll help you with murder.”

“Boys.” Pansy rolled her eyes on Draco’s other side. Greg and Vincent were stuffing their mouths like usual.

At the Hufflepuff table Diggory hugged the newly arrived Potter and kissed him on the cheek. The collective sigh leaving young-girl-lungs was like a torrent of melancholic wind above the long tables. Draco held his breath like a budding, lovesick noble should, watched the candle lights flicker and listened to his heart crack.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It was only natural that Potter was popular; he was handsome, funny, friendly and easygoing but others weren’t supposed to notice how kissable those lips were, how nice it must’ve felt to run hands through those inky locks of hair, how warm that tanned skin must’ve felt in the mornings... (And Potter started to sleep elsewhere, he wasn’t even there in the mornings and maybe Draco was dying a little on the inside.)

That was Draco’s right to imagine, and his alone.

Hah.

In his head, maybe.

And the fact, that Draco could’ve paraded himself naked and wet in the middle of their room and Potter wouldn’t have batted an eye to it was the worst. Not that Draco tried, Merlin forbid, he had dignity, but still. It doesn’t mean he didn’t try other methods, subtly. Too subtly, apparently, because Potter was gay and Draco was even gayer but the math still didn’t add up between them. Did it ever.

As it were, of course it didn’t. Draco’s Arithmancy homework was full of mistakes while Blaise’s lazy, half-assed parchment received a flawless E. It was a testament about how far the most noble and ancient House of Malfoy’s heir has fallen that he didn’t even care.

Slytherin had Quidditch practice before dinner and Draco simply couldn’t wait.

But to Salazar Slytherin’s bollocks was Potter sexy as hell. Draco, flanked by the loyal Greg-Vince duo, arm in arm with a zealous Pansy and tailed by Theo and Blaise deep in conversation about betting odds sauntered down to the Quidditch pitch like a crown prince with his court. They were elegantly late – he didn’t want to seem desperate, and anyway, it was only natural to watch their own team’s practice, right? They were there to cheer them up; Theo brought pumpkin juice and Draco had chocolate frogs, so that the tired, sweaty, red-faced (adorable) Pott… players could refill themselves when they join them on the ground. And until then Draco can discreetly drool over Potter’s sharp movements, slim yet muscular body and hawk-like precision.

“Draco, sweetie, your gay is showing.”

“I’m wearing it with pride.” Draco couldn’t look away from Harry, zooming above the pitch like a madman, flying in hoops and feints and spirals that would put Viktor Krum to shame. Draco would’ve loved to be in the air, right next to him but he quit quidditch after a nasty fall in third year. That was his metaphorical fall from grace and while the pampering and the get-well chocolates were quite sufficient right after Draco buried the reason why he lost his control over the broom in the first place under a ton of haughtiness. Before that fateful day it never even crossed his mind the beauty a nice male ass can provide but damn, Potter’s was worth falling for.

“Let him have this,” gestured Blaise negligently, like he was a baronet practicing benevolence. “Diggory’s going to show up soon to steal our Golden Boy anyway.

Diggory didn’t come that day but on all the others he was present, like a bad omen. Diggory had the sunniest smile in Hogwarts but to Draco he was a black cloud, constantly looming on the horizon and threatening to wash his happiness away until he drowned.

And even when he graduated to become a no doubt shining star on the Ministry’s dull sky Draco’s suffering was far from over. Well, it was his own doing. The useless, painful pit his heart deformed into spit out curses and rudeness and the love squeezing his ribcage grew thorns.

Thorns he tried to hook under Potter’s skin so much so that the boy, the golden sun to his silver moon run away from him every time he could.

He was further than ever on the day he climbed up from the disgusting pipes of Hogwarts, covered in Basilisk-blood and grime, swinging a giant sword and hissing obscenities, probably. Draco didn’t understand Parseltongue per se, but he did know the meaning of his brain going numb and his knees giving out and the tingling of all his senses.

And if Potter stabbed a Basilisk with that sword that night it was still nothing compared to the stab of want he evoked in Draco’s heart that day.