Sakai Michiba (sakaim) wrote,
Sakai Michiba

Challenge #60 at slythindor100

Title: On the Train (The Smiling Remix)
Author: Original written by gurliemoviegeek, Remix by sakaim
Word count: 947
Rating: R?
Summary: After their ride on the Hogwarts Express, Harry lies in bed berating himself for lying to Draco.
Warnings: Flashbacks.
Link to original story: here.

As Harry settled into bed later that evening, the sounds of Malfoy showering in the adjoining bathroom to his private quarters serenading his musings, he drew the emerald blankets up to his chin and stared up at the ceiling. His lungs still burned slightly from the cigarette smoke he had subjected them to earlier on the train, but what he was so sure was a third-degree, scarred-for-life sort of burn in his lungs was now just a dull reminder that he was to never, ever smoke again. When Draco’s tongue had slipped into his mouth, he could taste the burn there, but on Draco, it was not flaming but smouldering, stoking, and he craved that burn more than he could have possibly imagined before he’s tasted it.

And yet, he thought as he let his eyes drift shut, and he took a deep, calming breath, I lied to him today. This was true—he had done—and he had only realised it when Draco was crawling on top of him on this very bed, eyes full of ice, melting due to its own desperate heat. The look was one that had caused Harry to melt as well, for it seemed as though the runoff, the melted water, from that ice had run over him in great, rushing rivers, and everyone knows that, in the face of running water, stone is but a minor annoyance, easily dealt with, and Harry’s core had been laid bare.

He had lied to Draco about never having seen him smile.

At the time, of course, he was so sure that he was telling the truth, but with every passionate thrust or movement of Draco’s tongue on his, memories flashed into Harry’s head.

Draco was grinning widely as owl after owl swooped into the Great Hall, all owls from, it seemed, the Malfoy owlery. They were all large and foreboding, but in their talons they held great packages, which they promptly dropped in front of Draco in perfect stacks. “Must be the git’s birthday,” Ron muttered beside Harry, and Harry nodded jealously as he watched Draco tear into his presents, pulling out new robes and shoes and magical trinkets at which Harry could not have even begun to guess. Draco fastened something about his own neck and beamed as Pansy fawned over him, and Harry had thought to himself, ‘You should smile more often…’

Draco was sitting in their fifth year Double Potions class, bent studiously over a piece of parchment and frowning at it. Harry was unsure as to why he was watching—it was a dangerous pastime in Snape’s class, after all, and the last thing he needed was another detention—but he was all the same, and he cocked an eyebrow curiously as Pansy slid Draco a note scribbled on the parchment. Draco’s eyebrows creased for a moment, and Harry was just about to go back to his work when Draco’s expression changed altogether, and he was laughing silently, the corners of his eyes crinkled in mirth, and he gave a pleasant, short laugh that shook Harry to his very centre.

Ron and Draco were standing opposite one another in the drawing room of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, snarling and screaming and lucky for the coffee table between them, otherwise Harry was sure there would have been hair flying. Draco picked up the book they had obviously been arguing over and threw it right in Ron’s face, sneering as it hit him squarely on the nose and broke it. He then shoved past Harry on his way out of the room, and Harry snorted as Ron fixed his nose himself and stalked up the stairs, book in hand. He turned around to see Draco crying over the sink, shoulder shaking, and he knew that Draco was much too stressed to do anything useful. He paused before he walked over to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “You all right, Malfoy?”

Draco gave a startled, snotty sniff and flipped around to see Harry frowning at him. He could have retaliated, could have cursed him, but he slumped back against the sink and hung his head. “’M fine, Potter.”

“You sure?” Harry asked, and he gave Draco a jab in the ribs with his index finger. “Because if we’re not careful…I mean, you’re crying over a sink, I’m armed and shocked…You could try to cast the Cruciatus curse on me and I could rip you to pieces…How’s that?”

Draco blinked wetly at him before he gave way to half-sobs, half-guffaws, and Harry let himself step forward and embrace him. “It’ll be over soon, Malfoy.” And he let his old rival, now ally, cry it out on his shoulder. “I promise.”

It seemed like hours later—perhaps it was, he thought in hindsight—that Draco lifted his head from Harry’s shirt and gave him a weak, watery smile, but a smile nonetheless. “Get out of my kitchen, Potter.” Harry had obeyed, not bothering to correct him that it was, actually,
his kitchen in his hurry to hide upstairs and have a desperate wank on his bed.

The shower kicked off, and Harry opened his eyes as Draco sauntered, dripping wet, into the room with a roguish grin and a rather prominent arousal. “What’re you doing, Potter?” he asked as he crept onto the bed, sopping wet hair dripping on Harry’s face, and Harry reached up to push it behind his ears.

“Thinking. I lied to you, you know, about never having seen you smile.”

Draco appeared shocked. “You cad!” he growled, and he jerked the blankets away before he slipped down Harry’s body and between his legs. “Guess you’ll have to be punished for that then…”
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