Auror School One Shot
Jun. 9th, 2005 12:38 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
minervaalistor.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
bottom_dracoTitle: Any Other Day (thanks Vikki!)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry realizes what exactly those 3 little words mean
Where: Here! Under the cut
Harry wakes alone and for one moment he panics. He props himself up on his elbows, eyes squinted and confused, looking everywhere for Draco. Then he remembers. Sometime before dawn, Draco had woken him up trying to sneak out of bed. His lover had been suffering from insomnia these past several nights. He had kissed Harry’s face, explaining that he was going into the living room to read, to study all things Auror, as not to disturb Harry.
It is quiet in the flat, the only sounds the chirping of birds outside and the faint clanks and clunks of the attached neighbors going about their mornings. Harry knows that Draco must have finally fallen asleep somewhere or he would be able to tell, just from the strength of Draco’s presence, that he was awake and about.
Harry rises, puts on his glasses, scratches and stretches, all of the things he does every morning. He shuffles into the toilet, takes care of that, and decides that tea would be the very thing as he haphazardly runs a toothbrush over most of his teeth. No toothpaste, would ruin the tea, but just enough to get the nighttime fuzz off the enamel.
He sneaks down the stairs, tiptoe, not wanting to wake Draco from his hard won rest. He smiles slightly as he passes the couch, knowing at once from the sound of deep breathing and the limp hand that hangs over the arm that Draco is, indeed, fast asleep.
Harry moves slowly through the kitchen, gathering the accoutrements he needs for a cuppa. He places the kettle on the cooker and reaches back for his wand, which he routinely still sticks in the waistband of whatever garment he happens to be wearing.
“Dammit,” he whispers.
He wants to put a silencing charm on the kettle so it won’t wake Draco when it whistles, but he has left his wand upstairs on the nightstand. Still grumbling to himself-one of the first rules of Auror training is never go anywhere without your wand-he turns to go and get it.
As he walks back into the living room, he glances at Draco. His breath catches in his throat. How had he not noticed this before?
Draco is lying on his back, propped against the arm of the sofa. His body is curved ever so slightly towards the back, two pillows tucked under one arm, which he has pulled tightly next to him. He is naked from the waist up, wearing only a pair of thin cotton pyjama bottoms, black, that have migrated dangerously low on his hips. His body is smooth, hairless, effortless muscles only slightly defined. Harry smiles; Draco looks like he has a small pooch in this position, though he knows it is only an illusion. There is no fat to pooch anywhere on Draco’s body, stuck between being adolescent coltish boy and lithe, very thin man. He is stretched, one arm curling over his head and hanging down the side of the couch, and if he were awake, Harry would accuse him of wanting to flaunt his beauty.
Any other day, Harry would get no further than the small valleys that define and cradle Draco’s hipbones before he would pounce, tongue running hot and wild over the flawless terrain that is Draco’s body. But today, something stops him. Maybe it is Draco’s face, turned away, in profile, angelic with sleep. His hair, long and straight, is parted just above his temple and rises up and over, then rains in thick strands over his cheek. That hair defies naming; it has been called flaxen, corn silk, diamonds and stars, but it is only Malfoy, only Draco.
In his sleep, he looks so much like the boy Harry remembers from his first year at school, feminine and delicate, almost girlish with his lips that forever seem to be pouting and his pointy chin that forever seems haughty. His eyelashes, darker than the hair that barely dusts his thighs, are impossibly long, wildly thick. Maybe it is the thickness that makes Draco’s eyes look smoldering, smoky, purely sexual, even when he’s just eating a crumpet. What strikes Harry the most is the innocence of his face, the sweetness of Draco’s jaw line, the preciousness of the curve of his top lip. His skin, so fair and vulnerable, so soft and fragile, makes Harry feel the luckiest man alive because he knows its taste, its scent.
Harry drinks Draco in in what seems like one breath before he is moving, sitting on the edge of the couch, hip touching his lover’s.
His lover. This boy, this man, who has walked through fire and come out unscathed, perfected like a piece of smooth obsidian, is his. A vicious sense of protection floods Harry’s chest and suddenly saving the world doesn’t matter, is not even real. All that matters to Harry is saving Draco.
Harry reaches out, whispers his finger over Draco’s cheekbone. The digit causes hair, a prism of glitter and velvet, to cascade down and settle under his jaw. A small sound, honey to Harry’s ears, comes from Draco’s throat as he stirs, eyelashes fluttering like a pulse against his face. He turns his head, eyes opening as slowly and beautifully as a sunrise, and looks at Harry.
“Hi,” he whispers. Any other day, Draco would have a snarky comment to make, even so soon upon waking, but today, he seems to know that something is different.
“I love you,” Harry whispers back.
They have been saying this to one another for months now, casually before Apparating to training, passionately between kisses and thrusts, automatically whenever forced to separate. But now, in the quiet of this morning, the words are brand new to both of them. Harry feels that this is the first time he has really understood what it means to say this to someone, to lay himself open, to wield this, the most potent of any magic.
He whispers his fingers over Draco’s eyes, which close at the contact, over his lips.
Draco waits until Harry is finished tracing his face with fingertips that more often press into his hips, or push into the flesh under his jaw line to hold him steady while Harry kisses him dizzy. These fingertips are soft, gentle, barely touching him, but somehow making him feel safer, more secure, than if they were tight around his waist. Draco waits, quaking underneath this touch until it stops, then pulls Harry into his arms.
“I love you, too,” he whispers.
In the kitchen, the kettle starts to shrill. Harry and Draco kiss and it is a whole new day.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry realizes what exactly those 3 little words mean
Where: Here! Under the cut
Harry wakes alone and for one moment he panics. He props himself up on his elbows, eyes squinted and confused, looking everywhere for Draco. Then he remembers. Sometime before dawn, Draco had woken him up trying to sneak out of bed. His lover had been suffering from insomnia these past several nights. He had kissed Harry’s face, explaining that he was going into the living room to read, to study all things Auror, as not to disturb Harry.
It is quiet in the flat, the only sounds the chirping of birds outside and the faint clanks and clunks of the attached neighbors going about their mornings. Harry knows that Draco must have finally fallen asleep somewhere or he would be able to tell, just from the strength of Draco’s presence, that he was awake and about.
Harry rises, puts on his glasses, scratches and stretches, all of the things he does every morning. He shuffles into the toilet, takes care of that, and decides that tea would be the very thing as he haphazardly runs a toothbrush over most of his teeth. No toothpaste, would ruin the tea, but just enough to get the nighttime fuzz off the enamel.
He sneaks down the stairs, tiptoe, not wanting to wake Draco from his hard won rest. He smiles slightly as he passes the couch, knowing at once from the sound of deep breathing and the limp hand that hangs over the arm that Draco is, indeed, fast asleep.
Harry moves slowly through the kitchen, gathering the accoutrements he needs for a cuppa. He places the kettle on the cooker and reaches back for his wand, which he routinely still sticks in the waistband of whatever garment he happens to be wearing.
“Dammit,” he whispers.
He wants to put a silencing charm on the kettle so it won’t wake Draco when it whistles, but he has left his wand upstairs on the nightstand. Still grumbling to himself-one of the first rules of Auror training is never go anywhere without your wand-he turns to go and get it.
As he walks back into the living room, he glances at Draco. His breath catches in his throat. How had he not noticed this before?
Draco is lying on his back, propped against the arm of the sofa. His body is curved ever so slightly towards the back, two pillows tucked under one arm, which he has pulled tightly next to him. He is naked from the waist up, wearing only a pair of thin cotton pyjama bottoms, black, that have migrated dangerously low on his hips. His body is smooth, hairless, effortless muscles only slightly defined. Harry smiles; Draco looks like he has a small pooch in this position, though he knows it is only an illusion. There is no fat to pooch anywhere on Draco’s body, stuck between being adolescent coltish boy and lithe, very thin man. He is stretched, one arm curling over his head and hanging down the side of the couch, and if he were awake, Harry would accuse him of wanting to flaunt his beauty.
Any other day, Harry would get no further than the small valleys that define and cradle Draco’s hipbones before he would pounce, tongue running hot and wild over the flawless terrain that is Draco’s body. But today, something stops him. Maybe it is Draco’s face, turned away, in profile, angelic with sleep. His hair, long and straight, is parted just above his temple and rises up and over, then rains in thick strands over his cheek. That hair defies naming; it has been called flaxen, corn silk, diamonds and stars, but it is only Malfoy, only Draco.
In his sleep, he looks so much like the boy Harry remembers from his first year at school, feminine and delicate, almost girlish with his lips that forever seem to be pouting and his pointy chin that forever seems haughty. His eyelashes, darker than the hair that barely dusts his thighs, are impossibly long, wildly thick. Maybe it is the thickness that makes Draco’s eyes look smoldering, smoky, purely sexual, even when he’s just eating a crumpet. What strikes Harry the most is the innocence of his face, the sweetness of Draco’s jaw line, the preciousness of the curve of his top lip. His skin, so fair and vulnerable, so soft and fragile, makes Harry feel the luckiest man alive because he knows its taste, its scent.
Harry drinks Draco in in what seems like one breath before he is moving, sitting on the edge of the couch, hip touching his lover’s.
His lover. This boy, this man, who has walked through fire and come out unscathed, perfected like a piece of smooth obsidian, is his. A vicious sense of protection floods Harry’s chest and suddenly saving the world doesn’t matter, is not even real. All that matters to Harry is saving Draco.
Harry reaches out, whispers his finger over Draco’s cheekbone. The digit causes hair, a prism of glitter and velvet, to cascade down and settle under his jaw. A small sound, honey to Harry’s ears, comes from Draco’s throat as he stirs, eyelashes fluttering like a pulse against his face. He turns his head, eyes opening as slowly and beautifully as a sunrise, and looks at Harry.
“Hi,” he whispers. Any other day, Draco would have a snarky comment to make, even so soon upon waking, but today, he seems to know that something is different.
“I love you,” Harry whispers back.
They have been saying this to one another for months now, casually before Apparating to training, passionately between kisses and thrusts, automatically whenever forced to separate. But now, in the quiet of this morning, the words are brand new to both of them. Harry feels that this is the first time he has really understood what it means to say this to someone, to lay himself open, to wield this, the most potent of any magic.
He whispers his fingers over Draco’s eyes, which close at the contact, over his lips.
Draco waits until Harry is finished tracing his face with fingertips that more often press into his hips, or push into the flesh under his jaw line to hold him steady while Harry kisses him dizzy. These fingertips are soft, gentle, barely touching him, but somehow making him feel safer, more secure, than if they were tight around his waist. Draco waits, quaking underneath this touch until it stops, then pulls Harry into his arms.
“I love you, too,” he whispers.
In the kitchen, the kettle starts to shrill. Harry and Draco kiss and it is a whole new day.
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Date: 2005-06-09 07:28 pm (UTC)Thank you. Hugh makes a lovely older Harry.