Title: Coming Into Focus
Author: Quiridion ()
Artwork: Sofa by Gred and Feorge
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Notes: When I first saw Gred and Feorge's picture, I knew this was the one I wanted to write for. It is so beautiful. I think we all agree that she is very talented. I was immediately struck by two things: the blissful expression on the boys' faces and the pair of glasses lying on the floor. That was what inspired me to write this story. Dedicated to Gred and Feorge.
I'm not a good-looking person. 'Ferret boy' some people call me, and I suppose they may be right. If you want me to smell sweet, you'd better cut out my glands, because right now I reek of my father. My face is not my own; it is stamped with the mark of a Malfoy, from the cruel nose to the thin lips. I want a face to call my own, and I try to soften it, but, in the end, we all fold into our physicality. We become our face. It's not us to start with--it's just a mask forced upon us. We don't get to choose, but we begin to play the role. Now it's the only one I know how to play.
Ferret boy. It makes me sick to remember that incident in fourth year. Of course, he had to be there to see it. He has a knack of turning up to witness all my little humiliations. Usually, he has a part to play. Refusing my hand. It could have been so different. All these years I've spent trying to turn admiration into disdain and never quite managed it. It makes me hate him all the more.
He's no looker either. Not that it matters of course. He's The Boy Who Lived, a pin-up for a whole generation. He's not that extraordinary though. If you didn't know that he was Harry Potter you'd walk right past him in the street. I know though, that there's something in him that would make you turn round and look back over your shoulder. He's got some sort of goddamn spark, an amazing amount of energy. When you get to see it, it is something special: the way his smile lights up his fucking beautiful eyes, the way mine never could. He's starting to look weary though--is he sick of playing his role too? I can see it in the shadows under his eyes, the rebellious frown on his face.
Seven years is too long. He'll never see me as anything other than Malfoy; he'll never see me as Draco. I suppose it's my own fault, growling out 'Potter' at every turn. Today it changes though. He will see me in a different light. He will see me.
Oh good, he's alone. Imbecile! If I was Voldemort's number one target, I wouldn't be hanging about in the corridors on my own. It makes it more convenient for me though. I crash into him. Oops, silly me.
"God, Malfoy," he fixes me with that look of disgust he reserves just for me, the only thing I have to hold on to, "why don't you look where you're going?"
"You ran into me, Potter," I snarl back, enjoying the game. "It's not my fault that you're blind, Scarhead." Hmm. That was a nice touch. Nothing like Scarhead to put him into a strop.
"No I didn't," he snaps, a glow rising to his cheeks (oh yes!). "You ran into me."
"Well I'm hardly going to blame myself, am I?" I reply calmly, although I feel like smashing him into a wall and stifling that fat mouth of his.
He scowls at me. "That's so typical of you, isn't it? Like father, like--"
I don't let him finish his sentence. He's provided me with the perfect excuse. "Leave my father out of this, Potter." I punch him on the nose.
He goes spinning back across the floor. He looks up, nose bleeding; he's mad as hell. He comes at me and I run to meet him. Our limbs tangle in a whirl and I follow through with my plan. His glasses are knocked clear off his nose and slide across the floor. Potter starts to fumble around blindly.
I detach myself from his grasp, stroll over to the specs, and casually pick them up. They're not damaged. Yet. I mutter the spell under my breath: one tap of my wand, another tap for good measure. That should do it.
"Give me my glasses back, Malfoy," he says, in that honourably threatening tone that only he can get away with.
"With pleasure," I reply. I saunter over to where he's still trying to stagger to his feet and thrust the revamped glasses into his hand. "There you go," I say. Open your eyes, my love.
He fumbles to put the specs back on. Blood is dripping from his nose to the flagstone floor below. I guess I really got him a good one. The thought is no comfort. With a grunt, he shoves his glasses back on.
His eyes widen. "Mal...er, why did you...?" he mumbles.
"Yes?" I ask imperiously, hands on hips. "Something the matter, Potter?"
He looks at me, confused. He shakes his head, blushing. "No. It's just..." he fumbles with his words. "Why did...why did you give me them back?"
I smile the best I know how. I see his eyes widen some more and his mouth drop open. I doubt he's even aware of the fact. I measure my words carefully. Something to make him rethink seven years of hatred, something suitably noble. "Well," I reply, "if you can't see, then it's not a fair fight, is it?"
It's the best I could come up with, but it seems to do the trick; Potter is positively drooling now. Thank God we're wizards. How on earth do Muggles manage to pull? I finish him off: "So, ready to begin again?"
"What?" he's surprised. He backs away, seeing my raised fists. "No, Malfoy," he says, "I don't want to fight with you anymore today."
I lower my fists and pretend to be disappointed, which I suppose in a way I am. I growl out an insult, out of habit. (Plus it wouldn't do to act too nice; he'll get suspicious). "Suit yourself, Scarhead."
With that, I turn and saunter away, being sure to throw a stormy look back over my shoulder. He's still standing in the middle of the corridor, transfixed. I make an effort to put a sway into my hips. I hope you're looking at my arse, Potter. After all, it is my best feature.
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Harry's head ached. It had been sore ever since his fight in the corridor with Malfoy earlier that day. Hermione had been raging when she'd seen the state of his nose and he'd only just managed to stop her from going to Professor McGonagall. He couldn't explain why he didn't want to get Malfoy into trouble. Maybe his headache was preventing him from thinking clearly?
He looked around the dormitory. Everything looked the same, yet somehow different. Something fuzzy seemed to swim at the corner of his vision and Harry had to shake his head to stop himself from feeling faint. He'd been feeling hot and bothered all day and had nearly fainted in the corridor after the fight. Maybe it was the blood rushing to his head or out of his nose, or maybe it was the shock of seeing Malfoy say and do something vaguely nice.
It had been a very strange encounter, although Harry couldn't say why exactly. He'd just been walking along the corridor, minding his own business, when he'd felt someone smash into him. He'd looked up and seen that it was Malfoy and had immediately shouted out something in annoyance; he couldn't remember what. It had escalated from there, as did all their encounters, until he'd found himself on the floor, wrestling with Malfoy. Harry didn't like fights at all; it was really hard trying to avoid physical contact with someone you hate, while trying to pummel their face in at the same time. His nose had really hurt and he'd been mad, especially that Malfoy had got one over on him. Then he'd lost his glasses and he'd panicked. Harry felt himself crumple in shame as he pictured himself flailing around on the floor at Malfoy's feet.
He hadn't expected Malfoy to hand the specs back to him, but he had. Harry had been surprised, almost touched. He'd put his specs back on and the world had gone from being fuzzy and indistinct to clear and vivid, and the first thing he'd seen had been Malfoy, grinning at him.
It had been strange, seeing his face so close to. In the past, whenever he'd been that close to Malfoy, Harry had always been either screaming at him or trying to smash his face in. This time he wasn't doing either, and it felt odd. He noticed that Malfoy didn't look as much like his father as he had thought. His eyes were warmer, his expression more open, honest even. Harry had been surprised; he'd always thought of Malfoy as a duplicitous scumbag. With the light from a nearby candelabrum falling on his face, he had appeared almost angelic.
He had said something that Harry would never have expected to hear from Malfoy. Since when was he so concerned with doing what was fair? But then the old insults had came out again. This should have dispelled Harry's confusion, but instead he had found it only increased with each step that Malfoy took away from him. He'd stared after his graceful enemy, caught his piercing gaze as he turned, and drunk in every movement of his fine limbs, and his...
What is wrong with me? wondered Harry, rising from the bed. His head really ached now. His thoughts were swimming. He staggered out of the dormitory, down the stairs, and into the common room. Hermione was sitting studying by the fire. Harry threw himself down into a squishy armchair opposite her. She looked up from her books and her face immediately clouded over with concern.
"Harry, are you OK? You look awful."
"Thanks," he smiled weakly. "I feel awful too, actually. My head really hurts."
"I told you that you should have gone to see Madam Pomfrey. I don't know why you're protecting Malfoy of all people." She frowned.
"He...well he seemed different. That's all." Harry shrugged. "I mean, I lost my specs in the fight and he picked them up for me. He wouldn't continue fighting until I could see again. He said it wasn't fair. You have to admit, that is not a typical Malfoy thing to do. He didn't need to do that."
"You let him touch your specs?" Hermione sat up suddenly, suspicion etched on her forehead.
"Well, er, yeah, sort of..."
"Oh, Harry! You idiot! You're so naive. Give me those," she said, reaching out and grabbing Harry's glasses off him. Harry's world suddenly became fuzzy again.
"Hey," he cried, jumping from his chair and trying, unsuccessfully, to locate his specs so that he could snatch them back again. "Everything's all out of focus now."
"Good," Hermione replied, turning the glasses over in her hands and holding them up to the light. "I thought so! That evil little...Finite Incantatum!"
With a loud pop and a flurry of golden sparks, Harry's glasses flew up in the air and landed back in his palm. He stuck them back on his nose.
"Better?" asked Hermione, smiling.
Harry wasn't sure. He looked around the room. His head felt clearer, that was for sure, and there was no annoying blurriness at the corner of his eye. Other than that, nothing seemed to have changed. He returned Hermione's smile. "I guess so." He was starting to feel foolish now, and angry. Very angry. "What did he do to them then?"
Hermione frowned slightly. "Enjolimenta," she replied. Noticing the blank look on Harry's face, she continued: "It makes the caster appear more attractive to the wearer of the glasses." She bit her lip.
"What?" shrieked Harry. "Why on earth would Malfoy cast a spell like that on my specs?"
"I don't know," Hermione replied. She looked concerned and weary. She started to gather up her books. "It's probably just some game he's playing, something new to try and make you look foolish. You'll need to figure this one out on your own, I'm afraid. I'm going to bed." With that, she turned and walked off in the direction of the girls' dorm.
What have I done to upset her now? wondered Harry. He sat back down and looked around the room. At least that explained why he'd been suddenly struck by Malfoy's appearance, why he suddenly felt...What? What did he feel? Why would Malfoy want me to think of him in that way? he wondered again. It just didn't make any sense. Unless...Oh wow!
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Saturday evening, day two of being Potter's wet dream, and so far so good. His eyes didn't leave me once during breakfast, lunch, or dinner; although he must have had a fight with Granger because she's not talking to him. I'm just hanging about on the stairs, as you do. Stalking is an art form, but I've had seven years of practice. I've mastered the knack of being where he'll be, just so I can run into him. Here he comes now. He's still wearing the glasses. Oh goody! Ok, Draco, play it cool.
He looks really mad, madder than I've ever seen him before. Fuck! He can't have found out, can he? No, I don't think so. There's still a spark of admiration behind his glare, something more than was there yesterday. Is it lust? He storms on over to me.
"We need to talk, Malfoy." It's not a question, but I'm damned if I'm going to go quietly. I lean up the banister, faking nonchalance, but my palm is too sweaty and starts to slide. Shit! Luckily, he doesn't notice, he's too busy gazing into my eyes.
"We've nothing to talk about, Potter." I smile at his annoyance and watch his blush deepen. His lips part with a snarl.
"We're going to talk about yesterday. And today. We're going to talk about today too because things are different now." His gaze pierces mine but I pretend not to understand what he's talking about.
"Clearly, you've lost your marbles, Potter," I sigh and turn my back to him. May as well give him a view that I know he'll appreciate. I start heading up the stairs but then I'm jerked back. He has his hands on my robes and he's pulling me back round to face him.
"Don't you dare turn your back on me," he snaps. I'm scared to look up at him, but I do it anyway. He's not simply looking at me--he's staring. He's standing in the middle of the bloody corridor staring at me. Anyone could come past but he doesn't seem to care. I hardly dare hold his gaze, yet I can't look away. His eyes hold me still until he reaches out and pulls me up the steps and into a side corridor.
"What--" I begin, but I'm cut off by his moan.
"I want you." He burns into me, trembling.
"No," I say, shoving him off. "No you don't. You're only saying that because of the--"
He's furious. He slams me against the wall to silence me, and his lips bite against mine.
"For god's sake, Draco," he groans, "why can't you just take yes for an answer?"
I collapse into him. Draco. That's my name that he's saying, against my mouth. He's devouring me and I don't care. I tried to tell him. It doesn't really matter, does it? The fact that it was the glasses. I still have him, don't I?
No time to answer the question because he's killing me. I'm happy to die at his hands.
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The last seven years had passed in a blur for Harry. They'd been the happiest of his life but now he was beginning to regret them. For seven years, Malfoy's presence had produced this fire within him that he'd assumed to be hate. Maybe it was still hate? Harry knew he hated certain things about Malfoy and he certainly hated the little stunt Malfoy had pulled on him yesterday, but the thought that after this year he'd never see him again was...Well, it was weird.
He's in love with me? Harry wondered. He could scarcely believe it but why else would Malfoy want Harry to fancy him? Idiot, he thought. He couldn't just have told me, could he? No, that'd have been too simple and honest for a Malfoy. Harry felt sick to think of the waste of it all. Seven years. He is a duplicitous little scumbag after all.
Mealtimes that day had been sheer hell. Hermione had noticed him staring at Draco and had made her disgust quite clear by refusing to talk to him. Harry didn't care; he had to keep looking. He couldn't stop gazing at Draco: the way he kept smoothing his blond hair lest a strand get out of place, his spindly white fingers clutching his cutlery, his narrow lips wet with saliva, his jutting jaw, his too-large nose, his arrogant forehead. Harry wanted to ingest every detail of that face and make its owner pay for hiding behind his hate.
He'd found Draco on the stairs as he headed back to the dorm that evening. Had he been waiting on him? Harry would have liked to think so. Draco looked casually at him, which aggravated Harry further. He just keeps on playing the game. Well I can play games too, he thought, strolling up to Draco.
"We need to talk, Malfoy," Harry said. He stared into Draco's eyes. With the spell gone from his glasses, Draco's expression didn't look quite so open and honest.
"We've nothing to talk about, Potter," Draco smirked.
Harry was losing patience. This has been going on too long, he thought. I'm not going to wait another minute. "We're going to talk about yesterday. And today. We're going to talk about today too because things are different now."
"Clearly you've lost your marbles, Potter," Draco replied, turning away. Harry grabbed him by the back of his robes and pulled him back round to face him.
"Don't you dare turn your back on me," said Harry. He felt a wild fury within him; he'd never felt its like before. He wanted to take that cruel face in his and smother it, soften it until there was nothing left of Malfoy. No more Malfoy, only Draco. He hauled him up the stairs and round a corner into a narrow, empty passageway.
"What--" Draco began, but Harry didn't let him finish. He collapsed into Draco. His body was no longer his own. Ruled by his heart, not his head, his limbs lost control and his tongue ran away with him.
"I want you." Harry looked into Draco's face and saw him flinch, before he was shoved away.
"No. No you don't. You're only saying that because of the--"
Harry pushed Draco roughly against the wall to shut him up. He brushed his lips against the other boy's and whispered: "For god's sake, Draco, why can't you just take yes for an answer?"
Harry saw Draco's eyes widen in surprise and neediness, and Harry leant into him greedily. His mouth was on Draco's in an instant: so warm, so wet, so hungry. His hands found Draco's cheek, his waist, his thigh. Draco was melting into him, his charade crumbling in Harry's embrace. Harry knew they had to find somewhere private before it went any further. He grabbed Draco's hand and pulled him along the corridor.
Harry would have expected Draco to ask where they were going, to question Harry's decision, but he didn't. He just ran alongside him. Harry was vaguely aware of him: a blur of gold and black at the corner of his eye, the clammy touch of Draco's palm in his. They reached an old wooden door in a deserted part of the castle and Harry flung it open to reveal a cold, circular chamber.
The room was empty apart from an old velvet couch in the middle of the floor. A blanket lay on the couch. Draco stepped into the room. He turned to look at Harry, something like envy etched on his face.
"You've done this before?" It sounded like an accusation.
"You haven't?" Harry returned the challenge. Draco didn't reply; he just stared at the floor. Harry stepped forward and took him in his arms. "It doesn't matter, does it? Nothing matters anymore."
He reached out his hand to caress the back of Draco's head and brought his lips forward to meet him. It was the softest, most gentle thing. Harry would have liked it to stay that way, but he knew it would not.
It escalated from there, like all their encounters. They derobed each other, removed their outer layers, then ripped each other apart. Draco lay on the couch beneath Harry, his hips slanted upwards, as Harry thrust into him and left their masks shattered. They sweated notes of dark music that made the old fire rise up in Harry. So sweet, so hot, like the moisture on his brow. He felt Draco come beneath him, he reached forward to touch him and felt his glasses slip forward. His hand reached down to Draco, Draco's hips reached up, and as Harry's glasses fell from his nose and clattered to the floor, he heard Draco cry out beneath him. He came.
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I didn't think I'd live to see another minute, but he backs off and grabs my hand. He's leading me somewhere. I'd never let Potter lead me anywhere, but Harry can do what he likes to me. I trot beside him like a puppy and bark out in jealousy when he shows me his little love nest. How many people has he brought here before me?
He tells me it doesn't matter. I guess it doesn't. It's all the glasses anyway, so I guess I knew it would be like this. It doesn't matter, I think, as he strips me bare. I fumble with the buttons on his shirt. Does he know what he's doing to me? Is this his final revenge? He's always been there to witness my downfall, and this time is only different because I want him to be there. Kill me, my love.
He obliges. Not forceful, but confident. Lowering me gently onto him. It still hurts though, like he's stabbing me straight through, reaching into my heart. I look at his fucking beautiful eyes behind those goddamn spectacles. I clutch at his breast. His skin is weeping in time with my cock. He reaches out a hot palm to smear my come over my stomach. His glasses start to slide. He's shuddering and I'm trying to thrust up and reach out all at the same time. The specs fall off his nose. The noise they make landing sounds like my last chance hitting rock bottom. I cry out despite myself.
Harry misunderstands my cry and comes thick and fast. He fills me and then collapses, trembling, his body heavy on top of mine. He gazes around absently, trying to focus on my face. I feel sick. I'm suddenly aware of my nakedness, the scent of my crotch. I shove him off and reach down to pick up the specs. He grabs my arm and yanks it back.
"Leave them," he says. I try to protest.
"You can't see without them," I mutter. "That's why--"
"I know," he says, cutting me off as usual.
"What?" He doesn't know, he can't.
"Hermione took the spell off them," he says. He smiles up at me and the smile almost makes up for the nausea I feel on hearing his words.
"When?" I hardly dare ask.
"Yesterday," he grins. In fact, he's grinning like a maniac.
"Then why?" I ask.
He pulls me back down to lie with him, wrapping me in the blanket, clothing me in tenderness. He reaches out a hand in the vague direction of my head, fumbling and mussing my hair until he finds my cheek. He strokes it just as a tear hits. Bugger! He doesn't seem to mind though. He grins again.
"I don't need to see you, Draco," he whispers. "I can feel you." His hot breath on my neck calms me. His lips are on mine and I can get easier access to his face, now that the glasses are out of the way. They lie forgotten on the floor. We kiss, a taste of what will come after. He's holding me. I lie down, my head on the armrest, Harry's arms around my waist. He's right about today being different; things seem clearer. My world is finally coming into focus.