Disclaimer: All characters in this story belong to JK Rowling. No
copyright infringement is intended.
A/N: This is a Harry/Draco fic. Nothing graphic. If you take the time to read this, please take the time to review it. Even a word or two would be appreciated (even if they are not NICE words!).
His Grey Eyes
I saw him sitting by the lake, alone. It was just after his father had paid Dumbledore a visit. After his father had paid Professor Snape a visit. After his father had paid him a visit. It was odd to see him alone. Odd to see him without his bookends, Crabbe and Goyle. Odder still to see him crying.
I didn't know what to do. I was there. I couldn't leave without him seeing me. I couldn't stay without seeing what I was most definitely NOT supposed to see. I wanted to leave. God! I wanted to leave more than I had ever wanted anything! I didn't want to see him. I didn't want to see his pale hair falling over his eyes. I didn't want to see his shoulders hunched forward, his knees up against his chest, his lean but muscular arms wrapped around those knees. I didn't want to see those shoulders-broader every time I looked-shaking with silent sobs. And I didn't want to see tears glistening like crystal drops of rain on his incredibly soft cheek-a cheek now stained crimson.
But I couldn't leave.
An owl flew overhead and he glanced upwards. I caught my breath because I didn't want to see those cold grey eyes bright with tears. Didn't want to see how the tears softened them. I sighed.
He stiffened immediately. I could see his spine tightening, see the vertebra aligning themselves in rigid order. His head snapped back down, those oh-so-soft grey eyes staring straight ahead. The lock of silver silk that had fallen over his eyes was firmly brushed back in place by fingers so long and slender that they could just as easily have belonged to a skeleton. His shoulders no longer shook. But I noticed his fingers did.
I sighed again. And he heard me.
He turned his head in my direction. And I wondered how he had NOT seen me before. I was sitting against a tree, not 20 feet from him. I had been sitting there when he had come down to the lake. I had been sitting there when he had rushed by me, his eyes unseeing as the tears that blinded them fell heedlessly to the ground.
He met my gaze. His eyes were hard, yet still they glistened with tears, still they appeared liquid, limpid, luminous. "Enjoying the show, Potter?" he sneered, his voice bitter.
I wanted to turn away. I wanted not to meet that gaze. I wanted to get up and run back to the castle as fast as my little wizard feet would carry me. But I couldn't leave. I held his gaze. I couldn't look away.
"What? Nothing to say?" He raised one perfect brow and one perfect lip curled even more perfectly. "No jeers, no taunts, no laughter-no gloating?"
I shook my head-because I had no jeers, no taunts, no laughter, no gloating, no words at all.
He turned away and I thought I saw his lower lip quiver slightly. "Why not, Potter? I would have plenty of each of those things for YOU!" He laughed shortly. "But of course, you are Harry Potter. Perfect Harry Potter. Of course you would NEVER lower yourself to my level, would you?" His tone was scathing, but it seemed as if he had almost choked the last words out.
I would never lower myself to his level-because I would have to raise myself up to reach it.
"Look, Malfoy, I-"
He interrupted me. "Don't waste your sympathy on me, Potter. I don't want your sympathy."
I wanted to know what he did want. What of mine, what of me did he want? Nothing, of course. He didn't want my sympathy. He didn't want my reassurances. He didn't want my kindness. He didn't want my arms around him holding him tenderly against my chest. He didn't want my fingers touching his soft cheek, caressing those delicate cheekbones. He didn't want my lips brushing slowly against his small, almost feminine mouth. He didn't want my tongue slipping in between his soft, sensual lips.
He turned again, and our eyes met again. Those soft lips still held their habitual sneer, but those hard, grey eyes no longer glistened, were no longer liquid, limpid, luminous. They were hollow, empty-or they were at first glance. But at second glance. . . they were hurt, lost, alone. And at third glance. . . they were pleading, pleading with me to. . . what? Rush over to him and gather him into my arms, kiss his pale forehead, run my fingers through the silken silvery strands of his hair? To leave, more likely. Pleading with me to leave him to his suffering, leave him and spare him the humiliation of showing weakness.
But I understood. And I couldn't leave. Because I understood.
I had been coming off the Quidditch Pitch, been coming back from just flying around, from losing myself in the swift movements, in the air currents, in the soft sunlight of the early morning. I had heard Lucius Malfoy's scathing diatribe, had heard him rip into his son as a savage lion rips into the throat and belly of its prey. I had heard him tell his son how he had spoken first to Dumbledore then to Snape about his behavior, about how he had heard rumors that disturbed him greatly and how if those rumors were to be found to be true. . . And how he would be watched VERY closely from now on. . . I heard the sound of Lucius Malfoy's cane as it cracked from the force of the blow to his son's body. I had heard the cursing and the subsequent loud SLAP as the father's hand viciously caressed the son's cheek-that incredibly soft cheek, now stained crimson.
I had heard more than I was meant to, had heard more than I wanted to. I had quickly mounted my broom and had flown in the other direction, toward the lake. My breaths had been hard, my heart beating way too fast as I had sat down under the tree, as I had closed my eyes to shut in the tears. They were tears for him. Tears I knew he would not want from me.
But I understood. And I knew he saw that in my eyes. And he knew I saw that in his eyes. And he knew I had heard.
I opened my mouth to speak, but again, he interrupted. "Don't waste your breath, Potter." He turned away again. And he rested his head on his knees for a moment. I could see him take a deep breath, could see him steadying himself, drawing himself back within himself. He stood up suddenly, his movements so graceful and fluid that my breath caught in my throat. I stood up, too, but my movements were as clumsy and as awkward as a horse on a tightrope compared to his. I took an instinctive step toward him. I didn't mean to. I meant to press myself back against the tree, to merge into the bark, to make myself invisible. But instead I took a step toward him, my hand reaching out to him.
He walked toward me. My pulse quickened. But he had to walk toward me. He had to walk past me to get back to the castle. There was nothing more to be read into the direction he was taking than that. He had to walk toward me in order to walk past me. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see him anymore. I didn't want to see his cold grey eyes once again hard. I didn't want to see that proud, fine-boned, incredibly handsome face frozen in a mask of hatred at worst-indifference at best. And I didn't want him to see my eyes. I didn't want him to see into my soul anymore. I didn't want him to see into my heart. I clenched my eyes tightly, so tightly that I saw flashes of light at the corners. Maybe I could clench them so tight they would never open again, so tight that I would never see again.
I could hear his footsteps, could hear the soft sound of the blades of grass being crumpled beneath his feet. It was a soft sound. I had always marveled at how quiet his footsteps were. Even on the hard, polished floors of the castle you could barely hear him approaching. Ron always said it was probably a trait bred into the Malfoys from years of sneaking up behind people. Sometimes I didn't like Ron.
I thought I could actually smell him as he drew closer. It was that soap he used. It was imported from France, made especially for the Malfoy family. Of course he would never use the soap provided by the school! He would never use that on his delicate, alabaster skin! Nothing but the best should EVER touch that skin. Nothing but the best. . . His father used it also. You could smell it on him when he was around-if you happened to be close enough, which you really didn't want to be. But it was slightly different on Draco. . . softer, less. . . less what? Or was it more. . . more what? More masculine? Maybe. But whatever it was, it was uniquely his and it caught my nostrils as he approached. I breathed in deeply, letting that scent fill me, fill my lungs. I held it there, held my breath, not wanting to let go of it.
His footsteps stopped abruptly and I almost opened my eyes. Almost. But I didn't want to. Because I could smell him, could feel his breath upon my skin, because I knew he stood only inches away from me. I was already holding my breath. I had to let it out, and I did so-slowly, not wanting my breath to touch him, not wanting my impurities to contaminate him. Nothing but the best should ever touch his skin. . .
Then I felt fingers brush lightly against my cheek, felt them entwine gently in my hair. I felt a hand on my waist, felt it slipping around behind me, felt its warmth pressing into my back. I felt lips touch mine, lips as soft as the petal of a rose. I felt them brush my lips as lightly as butterfly wings. I felt my lips part and I felt a tongue, warm and sweet slip between them, felt it slide sensually along my tongue. I felt tears, hot burning tears trickling down my cheeks, tasted them as they touched his lips. I didn't know whose they were.
Then his lips were on my neck, his tongue licking in small circles, his teeth brushing gently against my skin. Then his lips were on my earlobe, his teeth biting lightly, tugging softly, his breath hot in my ear as he whispered, "Potter. . . my perfect Harry Potter."
And my whole body shivered. I shivered with longing, shivered with desire. . . shivered with cold, because he was gone. His hot breath no longer warmed my skin. His scent no longer filled my senses. I held my breath once more, trying to still the throbbing in my veins, the rushing in my head, the pounding in my chest. I willed my body to silence, trying desperately to hear his footsteps, to have one final sense of him. But they were gone. And I marveled again at his ability to come and go while scarcely disturbing even the air around him.
I opened my eyes. The world around me seemed changed. The sky above me was still blue. The grass below my feet was still green. The lake in front of me was still calm and as smooth as glass. I could still feel a faint summer breeze rippling through my hair. The morning sun was still warm upon my skin. But everything had changed. And it would never be the same.
I had been coming off the Quidditch Pitch, been coming back from just flying around, from losing myself in the swift movements, in the air currents, in the soft sunlight of the early morning. I had heard Lucius Malfoy's scathing diatribe, had heard him rip into his son as a savage lion rips into the throat and belly of its prey. I had heard him tell his son how he had spoken first to Dumbledore then to Snape about his behavior, about how he had heard rumors that disturbed him greatly and how if those rumors were to be found to be true. . . And how he would be watched VERY closely from now on. . . I heard the sound of Lucius Malfoy's cane as it cracked from the force of the blow to his son's body. I had heard the cursing and the subsequent loud SLAP as the father's hand viciously caressed the son's cheek-that incredibly soft cheek, now stained crimson.
I had heard more than I was meant to, had heard more than I wanted to. I had quickly mounted my broom and had flown in the other direction, toward the lake. My breaths had been hard, my heart beating way too fast as I had sat down under the tree, as I had closed my eyes to shut in the tears. They were tears for him. Tears I knew he would not want from me. He would not want them from me because the rumors his father had heard, the rumors that disturbed him so greatly that he had come to Hogwarts, had spoken to Dumbledore, had spoken to Snape, had threatened-had BEATEN-his son. . . Those rumors were about us, about Harry Potter, about anything but perfect Harry Potter and his son, Draco Malfoy. Rumors about early morning meetings behind the Quidditch Pitch, about stolen mid-afternoon moments in the Astronomy Tower, about late night rendezvous by the lake. And they weren't rumors. They were reality. They WERE reality. That was clear. That was so VERY clear. They were reality. Now they would be memories.
I picked up my broom. I looked up at the sky. There were clouds in that sky now. Grey clouds, clouds that hinted at rain, rain that would make this afternoon's Quidditch practice long and tedious. I sighed and mounted my broom. I kicked off and headed toward those clouds. I wanted to lose myself in the swift movements, in the air currents, in the soft, now slightly muted sunlight. But most of all, I wanted to lose myself in those grey clouds-the grey clouds that were exactly the color of his grey eyes.
A/N: This is a Harry/Draco fic. Nothing graphic. If you take the time to read this, please take the time to review it. Even a word or two would be appreciated (even if they are not NICE words!).
His Grey Eyes
I saw him sitting by the lake, alone. It was just after his father had paid Dumbledore a visit. After his father had paid Professor Snape a visit. After his father had paid him a visit. It was odd to see him alone. Odd to see him without his bookends, Crabbe and Goyle. Odder still to see him crying.
I didn't know what to do. I was there. I couldn't leave without him seeing me. I couldn't stay without seeing what I was most definitely NOT supposed to see. I wanted to leave. God! I wanted to leave more than I had ever wanted anything! I didn't want to see him. I didn't want to see his pale hair falling over his eyes. I didn't want to see his shoulders hunched forward, his knees up against his chest, his lean but muscular arms wrapped around those knees. I didn't want to see those shoulders-broader every time I looked-shaking with silent sobs. And I didn't want to see tears glistening like crystal drops of rain on his incredibly soft cheek-a cheek now stained crimson.
But I couldn't leave.
An owl flew overhead and he glanced upwards. I caught my breath because I didn't want to see those cold grey eyes bright with tears. Didn't want to see how the tears softened them. I sighed.
He stiffened immediately. I could see his spine tightening, see the vertebra aligning themselves in rigid order. His head snapped back down, those oh-so-soft grey eyes staring straight ahead. The lock of silver silk that had fallen over his eyes was firmly brushed back in place by fingers so long and slender that they could just as easily have belonged to a skeleton. His shoulders no longer shook. But I noticed his fingers did.
I sighed again. And he heard me.
He turned his head in my direction. And I wondered how he had NOT seen me before. I was sitting against a tree, not 20 feet from him. I had been sitting there when he had come down to the lake. I had been sitting there when he had rushed by me, his eyes unseeing as the tears that blinded them fell heedlessly to the ground.
He met my gaze. His eyes were hard, yet still they glistened with tears, still they appeared liquid, limpid, luminous. "Enjoying the show, Potter?" he sneered, his voice bitter.
I wanted to turn away. I wanted not to meet that gaze. I wanted to get up and run back to the castle as fast as my little wizard feet would carry me. But I couldn't leave. I held his gaze. I couldn't look away.
"What? Nothing to say?" He raised one perfect brow and one perfect lip curled even more perfectly. "No jeers, no taunts, no laughter-no gloating?"
I shook my head-because I had no jeers, no taunts, no laughter, no gloating, no words at all.
He turned away and I thought I saw his lower lip quiver slightly. "Why not, Potter? I would have plenty of each of those things for YOU!" He laughed shortly. "But of course, you are Harry Potter. Perfect Harry Potter. Of course you would NEVER lower yourself to my level, would you?" His tone was scathing, but it seemed as if he had almost choked the last words out.
I would never lower myself to his level-because I would have to raise myself up to reach it.
"Look, Malfoy, I-"
He interrupted me. "Don't waste your sympathy on me, Potter. I don't want your sympathy."
I wanted to know what he did want. What of mine, what of me did he want? Nothing, of course. He didn't want my sympathy. He didn't want my reassurances. He didn't want my kindness. He didn't want my arms around him holding him tenderly against my chest. He didn't want my fingers touching his soft cheek, caressing those delicate cheekbones. He didn't want my lips brushing slowly against his small, almost feminine mouth. He didn't want my tongue slipping in between his soft, sensual lips.
He turned again, and our eyes met again. Those soft lips still held their habitual sneer, but those hard, grey eyes no longer glistened, were no longer liquid, limpid, luminous. They were hollow, empty-or they were at first glance. But at second glance. . . they were hurt, lost, alone. And at third glance. . . they were pleading, pleading with me to. . . what? Rush over to him and gather him into my arms, kiss his pale forehead, run my fingers through the silken silvery strands of his hair? To leave, more likely. Pleading with me to leave him to his suffering, leave him and spare him the humiliation of showing weakness.
But I understood. And I couldn't leave. Because I understood.
I had been coming off the Quidditch Pitch, been coming back from just flying around, from losing myself in the swift movements, in the air currents, in the soft sunlight of the early morning. I had heard Lucius Malfoy's scathing diatribe, had heard him rip into his son as a savage lion rips into the throat and belly of its prey. I had heard him tell his son how he had spoken first to Dumbledore then to Snape about his behavior, about how he had heard rumors that disturbed him greatly and how if those rumors were to be found to be true. . . And how he would be watched VERY closely from now on. . . I heard the sound of Lucius Malfoy's cane as it cracked from the force of the blow to his son's body. I had heard the cursing and the subsequent loud SLAP as the father's hand viciously caressed the son's cheek-that incredibly soft cheek, now stained crimson.
I had heard more than I was meant to, had heard more than I wanted to. I had quickly mounted my broom and had flown in the other direction, toward the lake. My breaths had been hard, my heart beating way too fast as I had sat down under the tree, as I had closed my eyes to shut in the tears. They were tears for him. Tears I knew he would not want from me.
But I understood. And I knew he saw that in my eyes. And he knew I saw that in his eyes. And he knew I had heard.
I opened my mouth to speak, but again, he interrupted. "Don't waste your breath, Potter." He turned away again. And he rested his head on his knees for a moment. I could see him take a deep breath, could see him steadying himself, drawing himself back within himself. He stood up suddenly, his movements so graceful and fluid that my breath caught in my throat. I stood up, too, but my movements were as clumsy and as awkward as a horse on a tightrope compared to his. I took an instinctive step toward him. I didn't mean to. I meant to press myself back against the tree, to merge into the bark, to make myself invisible. But instead I took a step toward him, my hand reaching out to him.
He walked toward me. My pulse quickened. But he had to walk toward me. He had to walk past me to get back to the castle. There was nothing more to be read into the direction he was taking than that. He had to walk toward me in order to walk past me. I closed my eyes. I didn't want to see him anymore. I didn't want to see his cold grey eyes once again hard. I didn't want to see that proud, fine-boned, incredibly handsome face frozen in a mask of hatred at worst-indifference at best. And I didn't want him to see my eyes. I didn't want him to see into my soul anymore. I didn't want him to see into my heart. I clenched my eyes tightly, so tightly that I saw flashes of light at the corners. Maybe I could clench them so tight they would never open again, so tight that I would never see again.
I could hear his footsteps, could hear the soft sound of the blades of grass being crumpled beneath his feet. It was a soft sound. I had always marveled at how quiet his footsteps were. Even on the hard, polished floors of the castle you could barely hear him approaching. Ron always said it was probably a trait bred into the Malfoys from years of sneaking up behind people. Sometimes I didn't like Ron.
I thought I could actually smell him as he drew closer. It was that soap he used. It was imported from France, made especially for the Malfoy family. Of course he would never use the soap provided by the school! He would never use that on his delicate, alabaster skin! Nothing but the best should EVER touch that skin. Nothing but the best. . . His father used it also. You could smell it on him when he was around-if you happened to be close enough, which you really didn't want to be. But it was slightly different on Draco. . . softer, less. . . less what? Or was it more. . . more what? More masculine? Maybe. But whatever it was, it was uniquely his and it caught my nostrils as he approached. I breathed in deeply, letting that scent fill me, fill my lungs. I held it there, held my breath, not wanting to let go of it.
His footsteps stopped abruptly and I almost opened my eyes. Almost. But I didn't want to. Because I could smell him, could feel his breath upon my skin, because I knew he stood only inches away from me. I was already holding my breath. I had to let it out, and I did so-slowly, not wanting my breath to touch him, not wanting my impurities to contaminate him. Nothing but the best should ever touch his skin. . .
Then I felt fingers brush lightly against my cheek, felt them entwine gently in my hair. I felt a hand on my waist, felt it slipping around behind me, felt its warmth pressing into my back. I felt lips touch mine, lips as soft as the petal of a rose. I felt them brush my lips as lightly as butterfly wings. I felt my lips part and I felt a tongue, warm and sweet slip between them, felt it slide sensually along my tongue. I felt tears, hot burning tears trickling down my cheeks, tasted them as they touched his lips. I didn't know whose they were.
Then his lips were on my neck, his tongue licking in small circles, his teeth brushing gently against my skin. Then his lips were on my earlobe, his teeth biting lightly, tugging softly, his breath hot in my ear as he whispered, "Potter. . . my perfect Harry Potter."
And my whole body shivered. I shivered with longing, shivered with desire. . . shivered with cold, because he was gone. His hot breath no longer warmed my skin. His scent no longer filled my senses. I held my breath once more, trying to still the throbbing in my veins, the rushing in my head, the pounding in my chest. I willed my body to silence, trying desperately to hear his footsteps, to have one final sense of him. But they were gone. And I marveled again at his ability to come and go while scarcely disturbing even the air around him.
I opened my eyes. The world around me seemed changed. The sky above me was still blue. The grass below my feet was still green. The lake in front of me was still calm and as smooth as glass. I could still feel a faint summer breeze rippling through my hair. The morning sun was still warm upon my skin. But everything had changed. And it would never be the same.
I had been coming off the Quidditch Pitch, been coming back from just flying around, from losing myself in the swift movements, in the air currents, in the soft sunlight of the early morning. I had heard Lucius Malfoy's scathing diatribe, had heard him rip into his son as a savage lion rips into the throat and belly of its prey. I had heard him tell his son how he had spoken first to Dumbledore then to Snape about his behavior, about how he had heard rumors that disturbed him greatly and how if those rumors were to be found to be true. . . And how he would be watched VERY closely from now on. . . I heard the sound of Lucius Malfoy's cane as it cracked from the force of the blow to his son's body. I had heard the cursing and the subsequent loud SLAP as the father's hand viciously caressed the son's cheek-that incredibly soft cheek, now stained crimson.
I had heard more than I was meant to, had heard more than I wanted to. I had quickly mounted my broom and had flown in the other direction, toward the lake. My breaths had been hard, my heart beating way too fast as I had sat down under the tree, as I had closed my eyes to shut in the tears. They were tears for him. Tears I knew he would not want from me. He would not want them from me because the rumors his father had heard, the rumors that disturbed him so greatly that he had come to Hogwarts, had spoken to Dumbledore, had spoken to Snape, had threatened-had BEATEN-his son. . . Those rumors were about us, about Harry Potter, about anything but perfect Harry Potter and his son, Draco Malfoy. Rumors about early morning meetings behind the Quidditch Pitch, about stolen mid-afternoon moments in the Astronomy Tower, about late night rendezvous by the lake. And they weren't rumors. They were reality. They WERE reality. That was clear. That was so VERY clear. They were reality. Now they would be memories.
I picked up my broom. I looked up at the sky. There were clouds in that sky now. Grey clouds, clouds that hinted at rain, rain that would make this afternoon's Quidditch practice long and tedious. I sighed and mounted my broom. I kicked off and headed toward those clouds. I wanted to lose myself in the swift movements, in the air currents, in the soft, now slightly muted sunlight. But most of all, I wanted to lose myself in those grey clouds-the grey clouds that were exactly the color of his grey eyes.