Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Hide & Seek	By : miel_de_abeha Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 1558 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Harry Potter. I do not make any money or profit of any kind from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Les Nuits / Same Ol' Thing
- 2-False Astronomy / Lent et Grave
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Quick Note: Hello! This is my first story on this site. This takes place after winter break of 6th year (so Harry and Draco are 16). This is a stream of consciousness narrative, switching back and forth between speakers. I hope you like it!

One. Les Nuits / Same Ol’ Thing
I’m thumbing the glass, condensed water dripping down the edge and running to the palm of my hand. This wine, thick like syrup and just as sweet; it carries the scent of cut grass, grapes plucked from a far away vine. Nice or Champagne. Maybe. I only care about the burn.
Down the corridor, the echoes. Arguing again. They are on a schedule, it seems. Screaming about Galleons and wasting cash on trivial things, lush peacocks by the front gates, more gold goblets, pools of caviar. They remind me of angry first years in the school hallways fighting over expensive candies. Mine mine mine.
This room is dark. It smothers me well. They won’t find me here, though I know they will comb the mansion, hoping to push me on their side with weak words. Abundant justifications for splitting the quiet. Perhaps they think I’m somewhere else, out in the garden or curled on my bed, the way I used to do as a kid when I had no one to speak to.
I like this room I’m in. Small and black on the inside, cool because here is where we rest walls of wine. The moon gives me company during nights like these. Winter holidays. Weeks and weeks of staring at textbooks but not reading. Drinking. How many bottles recently? Maybe fourteen. Sixteen? I can’t remember.
I admit, Muggles can craft sophisticated booze but that verbal declaration will never lift from this tongue. I’ve snuck in 1946 Merlot. 1912 fizzing wine. Sometimes, American-made whiskey. Southern, according to the label. That sting reserved only for the loneliest of evenings. I notice the sun is sinking earlier and earlier, making space for the inevitable blanket of January snow. Luxurious in its pale glimmer. I look forward to the cold. I find myself more handsome in the winter.
This vacation is spent ignoring everyone, crumpling letters from Crabbe and Goyle and hurling them into the hot grate in the sitting room. I contemplate my place with these people. Hours lost thinking of the women I’ve had. I decided there is no use for the curves of their cords or plush supplication, nimble fingers like soft wax, dripping on my chest.
The last one cried and cried against me when she came, like some grotesque baby, weeping for more. Pansy’s ugly face screwed up, eyes like water, begging. Foul thin lips puckered, reaching out for me. They all do this. I never kiss back. The one before let me take her without so much a movement or peep, my body conquering hers but there was no heat. I can’t remember her face.
I’ve noticed all their wetness is slick but tangy in the smell. Breasts are too malleable, not enough push and they do not bend to my touch but still, I fuck and fuck. I fail to recall their names but I know they won’t forget mine. I will say this now, safe in the confines of my mind: I am seeking a hard body, unforgiving and bony, powerful in thrusts, bending over for me somewhere in the library. I want to pull and drink the spurts.
So soon after I birth these thoughts do I find myself wishing father and mother goodbye as I board the Express. His eyes glinting in the sun, hers pouring down to the ground. They are ashamed of their winter yells and I know it by their quiet insistence. I want to tell them it’s okay but I give no feeling. This is how they raised me.
The doors shut and the conductor commands the train forward. I know where to go; the group is waiting. As I expect, complaints about my vacation disappearing act, sycophantic smiles, her hand on mine. I yank myself away from her without apology. Pansy pretends this does not happen. The group talks and talks about filthy Granger and her buck teeth, Weasley the Mudblood lover, his sister and her countless suitors, Neville Longbottom’s stupidity…
Then, of course, Potter.
That disfiguring scar. Useless young man. Athletic hero. Boy Who Lived. Boy Who Needs to Die. Boy Who Should Blah, Blah, Blah. I’ve heard the insults about him far too many times to smile anymore. Some part of me has grown tired of the same words uttered over and over by these same people. Even my own sneering is weary. Six years of the same old thing.
Pansy laughs the loudest of all; she looks at me expectantly but I don’t make a sound. Blaise gives me a funny glance walking the line between disgust and disdain. He can smell the change on me, sudden and harsh like a wild ocean tide. He thinks I’m contagious, I can tell, but the girls are blind to it, cooing close to my neck as if hoping, hoping I will mark them with my mouth. Their pulses beat louder than the pots I remember Dobby dropping in his monkey-like clumsiness. These girls, their blood begs to be taken and purified.
I think of Potter and his tattered clothes, Muggle secondhand sneakers, always spattered with crushed dirt after Quidditch games, the sharpness in his eyes when we run into each other. I imagine potentials who I can manipulate to my will in the privacy of my dorm. Spread them on my bed, one leg stretched wider than the other. I have no shame. They are here for me to pump my stress in.
It has crossed my mind quite a few times that Potter may be one of those forbidden deviants. Women stare at him as they do with me but he, he is indifferent. He threw away the Chang girl last year like old bread gone moldy and rough. We have that coldness in common, he and I, but these are not the qualities I want from my next lay. Should I worry that I consider him? I roll my eyes at Blaise’s hard look; he understands too much without speaking.
I’m grateful when the train stops and we exit into the dark, but the group hordes me in a huddle, wondering aloud at my silence. The Great Hall buzzes with indistinct conversation, reminding me of nights by the pond eavesdropping on singing bugs. As I walk, he and I lock eyes, green against mine. He turns his head away from me at first but then moves it back suddenly, as if wondering why I have said nothing to him this time. He is following me, drawn. I feel the heat from across the hall. His brow is furrowed underneath his ridiculously unkempt hair; through his frown, I pick apart concern.
With a plummet in my stomach, I realize his worry is about me.

¥
That spoiled bastard. That strut and sneer. I feel like Ron sometimes, washed with anger, but I don’t let the swears out like he does. I’ll keep them hidden so Hermione won’t glower at us.
This time around, there’s something weird going on. Is he ignoring all of them? I catch him at the snake’s table, settled between Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle. The usual pieces of shit. The Zambini guy looks uncomfortable, his pissy face twisted as if he swallowed ten lemons at once. Whatever.
I saw a lot of Ron over the vacation. We ate way too many Pumpkin Pasties and Mrs. Weasley pushed me to the brink of fullness and nausea. Gotta admit, I don’t mind eating enough for four especially in the winter. The twins were wilder this time, constant explosions in the crowded house, so warm and kind. I laughed so much that my lips still hurt, as if burnt, as if stretched from my mouth. Now that I’m back, the contentment is broken, forgotten almost like an old toy wilting in a gutter.
Dumbledore gives his speech welcoming our January return; I wave to Hagrid and scowl at Snape. Six years of the same ol’ thing. Hermione tells us about her Paris holiday. Ron muses at her, concerned with the disgusting sounding food. Some soup called Blanket de Veau (I think). Escargot. Rotting cheeses. Jesus, even I think that’s gross. But she’s giggling anyway at the faces Ron pulls; he makes one like a goat almost. We all snort into our pudding. Hermione has a way of cheer that I’ve never seen in a woman before. With us, she’s carefree, around Ron especially. She doesn’t worry about her crazy hair or manic passion for homework (and six foot long essays). That’s what I admire about her most, that…that vulnerability she hands us, like a private gift. To be opened by me and Ron only.
I know, deep in my core, that she and Ron will rest with each other someday, their bodies never letting go.
I know I have no one to love; for some reason, this is okay with me. Why, I don’t know. Ginny gives me looks. I translate her lust and expectancy and let it go into the wind. Hopefully someone else will take her. She’s my best friend’s sis and I have no desire to make her mine. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a nice girl. Hogwarts girls are perfectly fine, and I know a normal guy would be happy with any one of them (minus Parkinson. Talk about a human pug). My mind is focused on other things—
Voldemort. Private lessons with Dumbledore. Peeling Horcrux clues from foggy memories while trying to pass my classes (I did none of the assigned winter break reading. Hence, my point). I float between Ron and Hermione’s tiffs on copying parchment answers, though I always manage to make her give us her neat scrolls. I gotta pay her back somehow for all these years spent swindling her coiled notes. Mental note: Buy her so many Chocolate Frogs that her parents will cringe in the terror of her future cavities.
Okay, so I do love Hermione. That was dumb of me to not to admit it right away. I love her and Ron the same, this feeling smoldering in me, like a quiet fire. I’m lucky and I think they’re lucky too. The family I never had. Every night, I thank God for them. But this love isn't the kind that bleary eyed victims talk about, the hotness moving to their stomaches and lower. I have never felt such a thing.
I wonder, sometimes, mostly when I’m alone, if everyone has adoration like I do, friends to talk to. My question is answered when I look back up and examine that stupid bastard. He’s unresponsive to the group laughing around him, his hand through slick blonde hair. He is staring at his fork with eyes that I can’t read anymore. He used to be so easy, with two modes: Scowl. Glare. (Forgot to mention the occasional drawl. So three modes). But man, what the fuck happened?
He’s annoyingly mysterious now, lips zipped. He’s thinner and ice. He’s been stressed this whole year, that’s for sure. I can tell in classes and how he barely meets my eyes anymore. He’s stopped mocking me incessantly. Maybe he’s as tired of the bullshit as I am. Maybe, just maybe, we can have that in common, just a little something between us, like some fucked up secret.
Why I wish this, I can’t say.

TBC
So, I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I will try to post a new one soon. The chapter title is named after songs I listened to while writing, so I will post that information in case anyone is interested. Here you are: “Les Nuits” by Nightmares on Wax. “Same Ol’ Thing” by Force of Nature.
As a side note: While this story takes place during the Half Blood Prince era, I am going to semi- ignore a lot of the crazy action in favor of focusing on Draco and Harry's intimate relationship. Comments are always appreciated.
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