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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- 2
Thanks to delia cerrano and bickymonster for taking the time to comment. Your kind words made me smile.

Two. False Astronomy / Lent et Grave
It was easy for me to slip back into it. Snuggling pillows on my four poster, soothed, in a way, by Ron's melodic snores. The ripple of his breathing dancing through dreams that I lose upon waking. Classes and wand waving, homework that I ignore. Massive meals in the Great Hall, bloated with treacle tarts, visiting Hagrid and rock cakes I sly into the pocket of my shirts. The best part: sweeping the sky on my Firebolt at dusk, partnered with the glowing sun. To Ron and Hermione, I am the picture of contentment but I have hauled away a hushed truth. Where has my usual glee departed to? I can't say but I know it left me during these peeling weeks, the normalcy shattered with the only hiccup in my routine: him.
He disappears and I strive to find where he goes, especially now that he insists on being completely alone. His usual gang follows him around like newly hatched ducks obsessed with the one who bore them, but he stalks away from his group, haughty as ever. I need to know why. Piece of shit.
I pretend to read the Prophet in the mornings, holding the paper high to armor my bounding eyes. Yet I peer over the top of the pages and follow. Down the hall. Up the hall. Swift grabs at ladle. A pour of soup or oatmeal. He nudges his food but doesn't put much in his mouth.
Has he always been this thin?
In classes there are no comments, only pursed lips. Lazy scribbling of notes. Avoiding me like I have some sickness. Ron and Hermione have noticed this but they don't have much to say (though, to be honest, I've never pressed them on their opinions). I suppose they're grateful Malfoy has finally fucked off, but for me... for me: the lingering wonder where his sorrow stems from. Yes, I know he is brimming with a field of black blossoming flowers. Prickly. How many times have I given my mirror the same gaze he gives, closed off, despite blinking?
The jarring reality is that we are pierced in the same valley of loneliness. This is why... this is why I keep searching.
The map is the only friend that harbors my secret; every evening I illuminate the parchment with my wand, staring at the dot bearing his name. He paces often in the ink of the evening, shielded by early morning silence, ambling in a hidden corridor on the fourth floor. Many, many steps away from his oblivious fan club.
Okay, okay. Fine. I keep my mind on him more than I ever have before. Now that that's out of the way, I have something else to say.
I overheard a fucked up line the other day, claims that Malfoy is gay and he sneaks young boys into his bed at night, pillages through scores of them as if unsure what to find. I didn't believe this until I saw it. I remember the first time there were two dots moving on his mattress. I gawked, thought the map had finally reached its wits end... but many more names appeared after. All men. First years, second years, older students, every boy in between. Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs too.
Thank goodness, no Gryffindors (yet). Who will be the first of us he beds? I think of Ron and laugh, cleaning the map and stuffing it into the safety of my pillowcase. I have told none of this to my friends but I think they've overheard the rumor too. Well, them and the entire school. No one approaches Malfoy in the halls any longer but he still sits flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Loyal dogs. And no, I haven't seen their names sharing him (thank God).
Wait. What?
What's happening to me? All these years spent eyeing him and fighting him and now I am trying to understand him and rummage through his mind. I... I don't want to sleep with him. Even if I did, I wouldn't voice such a thing but sometimes, I can't push unwelcome images from my mind, the both of us curled in a dark place and the gasping passed between us. No, what I need is--
Forget it. Never mind.
February dawned and the campus was colder than ever, frigidity constantly in my company. I couldn't sleep despite piles of sheets pouring over me in the evening and a smoldering bed pan caught near my feet. So I consulted the map. There he was. His usual spot in the fourth floor hallway again. Pacing. Pausing. Pacing. Circles. Now I would find out why.
I sneaked the cloak from my trunk and flayed myself from the snoozing dorm, deft. I decided I would only observe tonight, no talking. I think that bastard would curse me into a slug if he knew what I was planning.
Tip toeing through halls loud with stillness, stifling shuffles of my shoes, clasping the cloak close to the top of my head, covering my soles. The map, shaken open, Lumos concealed in my bundle. I stop. He moved to the astronomy tower now, alone. No more pacing. I run to him and when I arrive, I discover him leaning over the open windowsill, tall stained glass thrown open. His elbows perched against the ledge. So much moonlight, painting him, bleached, like paper. Three empty bottles of wine tucked neatly to his side. His pores run with the stale stink.
My God, what is this?
Crap. I gasped out loud, a sharp crack, like a belt meeting skin.
Who's there? he says, winding around. His gaze, drowned. He reaches for his wand but it crumbles to the ground with a clatter. He doesn't bother to retrieve it. I am hiding in the corner and make my choice. I release the cloak from its perch on my shoulders and fold it to the floor, hidden. I wipe the map and emerge, jamming it into my back pocket as I go. Potter, he groans, bony fingers running through his hair. Knuckles that jut. His glare, unusually tame, as if he has purposely put a stopper over his practiced rage.
I ask what he's doing in the halls this time of night. We cut the bullshit. We store those old feelings where they belong, trapped in past time. This is different then the same ol' thing we had before. I want to ask what he does in the halls but I hold the question within. He blinks in a forlorn sort of way, unfocused, his eyes uncontrolled. He mulls away from me. Have you heard? he murmurs, facing at the wall as he spoke.
No, I say.
I examine his back and dark clothes. I imagine counting the notches on his spine.
I think I'm gay, he says.
The words walk with an uncertain sting, the echoes find a home in my eardrums. He is laughing unabated and intoxicated and I tug apart the ringing to ghost through the repressed echoes of a lonely man. I understand, Malfoy, I want to say. This plague is ours; we roam the same road, like animals stuck in the rain.
What I reveal instead: Yes, I've heard. But I am not returning his odd smile.
He gives me a strange look, moves forward. He tastes my worried glance, like a fine wine and yanks feeling from my concealed doors. We are resisting like a rope fought for in hard grip. I... I let him do this; the sadness drains from me and he drinks it eagerly, his eyes fluttering, almost rolling. I am left a shell. I see a hurricane of need in his face. It frightens me. What do you think? he asks, his voice a pendulum of hypnotic command. This is how he gets them, I realize. How easy this must be for him, to purr and have all of us bend to his will.
I don't think anything, I end up saying. And that's it.
I walk away, trembling, taking care not to sprint. I lean to snatch my cloak, and there is the sound that puts my chest into a frenzy. A noise pacing behind me like a frightened child. Vulnerable. The trace of his whimper begging me to stay.

¥
He thinks that I don't know, that I don't examine him too. That I can't resist my palm from twisting to my groin in the nights when I am alone. I wanted to confess about all of them but I didn't. I won't. I can't. I caught his surprise in the tower that evening and buried it under my fingernails, hoping my cells would soak and memorize what he has to offer. His look was nothing like I've sucked in before. There was so much in that moment that I needed--
Forget it. Never mind.
Someone help me. They keep piling. The first one: a seventh year, wild boy in bed, biting. I refused his advances after. The second, third and fourth I don't remember. How may have there been? Please. Make this stop. Cut the bottles from my hands and tie my wrists behind my back. The newest conquest is too eager to impress, his opening puckered. I pound and stretch. But it's Potter, I focus on Potter, his blazing like a desert newly watered and fresh. This flailing knowing between us, our secret. Ours.
The person beneath me is of no consequence anymore even as he writhes in his dramatic arc. The boy is screaming, I love it yes, yes. Fuck me--
His gasping evaporates, slipping from my ears like dripping liquid. What I have left to grasp: the strangled tumult of my lonesome wheezing.

TBC
Note: The songs for this chapter are "False Astronomy" by Mister Lies and "Gymnopedies, Lent et Grave" by Erik Satie. I will try to post a new chapter soon. Thanks for reading.
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