Chapter 4
Harry was dreaming.
It was raining heavily, and thunder was rumbling nonstop.
Harry started walking. Everything around him was shades of grey. Wherever he looked, there were trees surrounding him, tall and thin, blocking the sky from view, yet casting dark shadows on the ground. He was in some sort of a forest – the Forbidden Forest, Harry realised instantly. What was he doing here? There were only trees around, and they all looked the same. Harry walked some more, but it was without purpose. He felt so lonely.
Suddenly, a flash of lightning hit one of the trees, and it went down. Harry felt fear grip his heart; what if the lightning struck him, too? There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. What was he going to do? He was drenched and shivering. He had to protect himself from the storm... and then, he remembered – he was carrying an umbrella. Harry opened the umbrella to shield himself from the rain and lightning, and he sighed with relief. He felt more secure now.
He continued walking, when something clamped on his shoulder. No! He had to hold on to the umbrella. Someone was calling his name, but Harry didn’t want to hear it. Clenching the umbrella with both hands, he dug his heels into the ground. He had to wait for the danger to pass...
“... Harry...! C’mon, mate... just a dream...”
Slowly, as Harry came to, more sounds started to permeate his mind. He became aware that he was lying on his side, clutching a pillow to his chest. He opened his eyes, and immediately closed them again, mumbling, “Ron, the light.”
“Oh, sorry, mate,” said Ron, lowering his wand a bit – the tip of it was alight with the Lumos spell. “You okay now?”
“Yeah...” Harry pulled himself into a sitting position, tossing the pillow away. “Did I wake you? Sorry.”
“Nah, at least you weren’t yelling anything,” Ron said awkwardly. He stood up from his crouch by Harry’s bed. “Another nightmare? I thought Pomfrey gave you some Dreamless Sleep.”
“Yeah, I... I guess I forgot to take it,” said Harry, stifling a yawn. “Go to sleep, Ron. You too, Neville,” he added, when he saw Neville’s groggy face blinking at them.
Eventually, the three of them settled back into their beds, and Ron muttered Nox to douse the light. Seamus gave a loud snore. Harry, his body slicked with sweat, reached for the pillow he’d chucked away, brought it back to his chest, and stared at the curtains surrounding his four-poster bed. This time, he remembered to take a swallow of the Dreamless Sleep potion he kept in his bedside table before he went to sleep again.
It was Saturday, so Harry let himself sleep in. He woke up at ten o’clock, to a dreary sky, stuffy nose, and a headache. His prediction the day before about catching a cold evidently proved to be true.
The day before, after he’d left Malfoy to his own devices, Harry reached the main entrance to the castle in a state that would have Filch spitting fire at the sight. He’d been soaked to the bone, dripping mud and raindrops all over the floor, with strands of grass tangled in his hair. Quickly, so as not to risk Filch accusing him of defacing the castle, Harry had cast a Tergeo on himself, and then used the same spell to siphon off the puddles of water and mud he’d brought inside. Having also cast a Scourgify for a good measure, Harry finally headed for his dormitory.
Not only had he been sneezing like a banshee, he’d also been shaking like a leaf the whole way there. Even a Warming Charm hadn’t been of help. Due to feeling so miserable, not to mention the fact that he’d been fairly sure he’d already missed most of Transfiguration, Harry had decided against going to class. Instead, he’d collapsed on his bed the moment his feet dragged him into the dormitory, and he fell into slumber in a matter of minutes.
Harry massaged his temples as he did quick math in his head; apparently, he’d been asleep for about twenty hours. He vaguely remembered Neville waking him up some time in the evening to ask if everything was alright. Harry had shrugged him off. He’d just wanted to sleep.
All the thinking was making his head ache even more now, so Harry decided it was time to get up and get on with life.
In the common room, he found Ron and Hermione curled up together on one of the couches. The instant they saw Harry, Hermione launched into an interrogation. “Harry! How are you feeling? Ron said you’ve slept through dinner – have you caught a cold? Oh, here, we’ve brought you breakfast...”
Harry took the proffered plate, and he flopped down into an armchair. “Thags, ‘Ermione, you’re the bez. And yeah, bud I feel beder now.”
“You’re talking through your nose,” Hermione pointed out. Harry sneezed. “Right, that’s it – when you’re done eating, we’re going to Madam Pomfrey for a Pepper Up Potion. And don’t even try to argue with me,” she added with a glare. When Harry turned to Ron for help, he only received a sympathetic shrug in response.
And so it was that after Harry nibbled on his food enough to warrant Hermione’s satisfaction, he trudged down to the Hospital Wing. With some difficulty he’d managed to convince Hermione he was capable of going by himself. While Harry appreciated her concern, he knew she wanted to spend more time alone with Ron, and Harry didn’t fancy being the proverbial fifth wheel. And besides, he wasn’t dying – it was just a cold.
For the rest of the day, Harry was feeling moody for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint. The Pepper Up Potion helped with his stuffy nose and the headache, but his sneezing kept manifesting in the most inopportune moments - first, when he’d been about to drink from his goblet at lunch and ended up dowsed with pumpkin juice, and then in the common room, when Ginny had tripped over the corner of a rug and fell into Neville’s arms. Ginny and Neville had been locked in an embrace, gazing at one another soulfully, when Harry sneezed.
It got awkward. Once Ginny disentangled herself from Neville in a record time, the three of them proceeded to mumble apologies until Harry fled.
He wasn’t really jealous of Ginny. It wasn’t his business if she and Neville seemed to become rather cosy with one another. She wasn’t Harry's girlfriend anymore. Harry just wished it would take her a little longer to get over him. As Harry thought this, he winced, flinging himself onto his bed.
He was the one who had left her. He was responsible for their break-up. Ginny had all the right to move on whenever she wanted, and Harry wasn’t privileged to feel offended. Did he want her to keep pining over him? After a second’s consideration, Harry decided that he didn’t. He didn’t want to see her miserable, and the notion of Ginny still having feelings for him was just making him feel uncomfortable. More than anything, Harry didn’t want her to resent him forever.
After they had split up, he’d experienced a feeling of liberation. He did genuinely care for Ginny, but only like a friend, and never like a lover. Much as he’d tried, he didn’t desire her. His body had never reacted to the touch of her breasts or, once, when she’d put his hand up her skirt. It was embarrassing. He hadn’t been able to please her, despite knowing she wanted him to, on several occasions.
He recognised that Ginny was a beautiful girl – he just didn’t think of her on a sexual level. She felt too delicate, too slight, too supple. Ginny’s body was too curvy, and her hands too small. Her physique was so unfamiliar that, sometimes, Harry had been afraid he would hurt her if he hugged her too tightly.
Images of Ginny were entirely different to the images Harry’s imagination provided whilst he was in the privacy of his four-poster bed, or the shower. Instead of full breasts and soft thighs, he thought of taut muscles and hard ridges. He pictured Oliver Wood’s bare torso after Quidditch practice, or how muscular Charlie Weasley’s back looked even through a shirt. Sometimes, he thought of firm, confident hands touching his body as he was touching himself. Other times, it was a solid chest sliding up against his own, while a thigh more powerful than Ginny’s was placed between his legs. Occasionally, he wanked off to the idea of another person standing behind him, watching. Some of his fantasies were more explicit than others, but not one of them involved Ginny.
By the time dinner rolled around, Harry was completely immersed in his fantasies. His hand was making its way towards the front of his trousers, when Ron burst into the dormitory.
“There you are, mate!” Ron exclaimed triumphantly. “What’re you doing? Better report to Hermione – she started to think you’ve fainted in the corridor somewhere. You still feeling ropey?”
“Er, no, not really,” said Harry.
“Well, then, come on!” urged Ron. “Dinner soon, did you forget? I can’t wait for the Yorkshire pudding today...”
Sunday came and went.
At lunch, Harry was treated to the sight of Ginny sitting close to Neville, giggling at whatever story he was telling her. Harry wasn’t as affected by that scene as he’d thought he might be. He had already established with himself that Ginny was free to pursue new relationships, and Harry was in no place to stop her. He didn’t want to stop her, either. The only feeling he came close to feeling when he looked at her flirting with Neville was awkwardness, because he didn’t want Ginny to think he was jealous of her, or some such.
Harry’s idea of dealing with the situation was to ignore it. Ron, however, had different notions.
“Blimey, looks like Neville’s moving quick,” he said to Harry, frowning in Ginny and Neville’s direction. “If you don’t make up with my sister soon, he’s gonna snatch her away from you, mate. Want me to tell him off for you?”
Harry assured him that no, thanks, he could handle it, and then quickly changed the topic to Quidditch.
To tell the truth, this year, Quidditch was quite a sore subject for all Hogwarts players and fans. Since the Quidditch pitch was still in the process of restoration after being burnt down in the Battle of Hogwarts, matches couldn’t be held on it. It was rumoured that the reconstruction might take until the end of the term.
To Hermione’s indignation, after the summer, charged with rebuilding the Quidditch pitch were the house-elves. While the house-elves didn’t seem to mind the additional workload, Hermione had had to be constantly dissuaded from starting another campaign toward their well-being. Although she had finally relented, she could still be heard muttering about enslavement whenever a house-elf walked past.
Harry had heard that the reconstruction of the Quidditch pitch had been delayed in favour of rebuilding the castle, which took the whole summer to be finished. Although a magical construction company had been hired by Professor McGonagall, the Headmistress resigned from their services once the school year began. There had been one other group designated to aid in restoring Hogwarts – they were an assembly of wizards and witches selected by the Ministry to carry out community service. Harry knew Draco Malfoy had been a part of that group.
He wasn’t sure how the other two Malfoys were faring in the aftermath of the war, but he believed Draco’s punishment was fair, all things considered. Harry had spoken for him and his mother at their trials, which Shacklebolt (who was the new Minister) obviously took into account before passing judgement.
For association with the Death Eaters, Narcissa Malfoy had been placed under house arrest for a year. Draco’s list of charges had been quite a bit longer, and Harry couldn’t remember the precise extent of his probation. He recalled feeling pleased at the final verdict, though – it involved community service, finishing school and acquiring N.E.W.T.s, as well as an earlier curfew, among other things. Malfoy sure had a busy year ahead of him, thought Harry.
When he looked back on the trial, Harry recalled Shacklebolt telling Malfoy something about his hours of community service interfering with schoolwork. At the time, Harry hadn’t thought much of it, and so he hadn’t realised what those words meant – that Malfoy would mandatorily become Hogwarts’ new caretaker. Harry was still finding this amusing.
The third Malfoy, Lucius, was sentenced to five years in Azkaban. Harry thought that was still a rather generous punishment – after all, Lucius Malfoy’s only redeeming point was that he had defected at literally the last moment. Harry hadn’t felt any sympathy as he watched Lucius being taken to Azkaban, especially since the Dementors no longer resided there.
At dinner the same day, Harry found himself thinking about Draco Malfoy again.
He couldn’t help it – Ron and Hermione were at that stage when they only had eyes for one another, and there was no one else around who he could chat to. Bored out of his wits, Harry let his gaze wander, until it reached the edge of the Slytherin table. There was Malfoy, sitting with Theodore Nott and Millicent Bulstrode. Seeing as Goyle hadn’t come back this year and Crabbe had died in the fire, Mafoy apparently made Nott and Bulstrode his new minions.
Then again, maybe not. Harry considered this. He hadn’t actually seen Nott and Bulstrode flanking Malfoy, like Crabbe and Goyle had. When he thought about it, he decided Malfoy was acting a lot like he had in sixth year. He was quiet, mainly keeping to himself, and (from what Harry could see) rarely interacting with other people. Perhaps he was feeling remorse for his past deeds, but more likely he was simply steering clear of trouble.
He may have been acting the part, but he didn’t look like the Malfoy of sixth year. He looked healthier. His skin was pale but not pasty, and somehow, his frame seemed svelte instead of thin. Actually, Harry thought Malfoy looked damn fine. Handsome even, if one was into blonds with sharp features and high cheekbones. Apparently, Harry was, if he was finding Malfoy’s looks appealing.
And that was as far as Harry let himself mull over Malfoy. He averted his eyes before anyone could notice him looking, but then he realised somebody had noticed. Namely, Ginny. She turned away after a second, frowning and appearing uncertain. Harry shrugged. So far, he hadn’t been able to find a good opportunity to talk to her. Or, more to the point, he’d been putting it off. They were so awkward around one another it was painful, but then, that was also the reason Harry knew they needed to talk. They were still friends, or at least Harry hoped so. He wanted to fix this – but should he be the one to approach Ginny, or should he wait for her to do it? Was she even considering patching things up?
Harry had never understood girls. While, normally, he would go to Hermione for advice, this time he held back. A few times now he’d caught Ron sneaking glances at them whenever Harry talked to his girlfriend in private. He didn’t want to give Ron reasons to be suspicious.
Before he knew it, Monday was upon them.
What was worse, Harry and several other eighth years had to start the day in the cold, draughty dungeons.
“Now, now, everyone settle down!” Professor Slughorn said brightly as he entered the Potions classroom. “Everyone seated? Excellent, excellent! Today, we will be brewing the Scintillation Solution – not terribly complex to make in terms of difficulty, though fairly tedious and unpredictable... Do take my advice and remember to be very watchful with this one! Now then, can anyone tell what the properties of this... But Miss Granger can, of course!”
Since Harry sat at the table in front of Hermione’s, he’d been unable to see her hand shoot into the air like a skyrocket.
“As the name suggests, the Scintillation Solution is used to momentarily increase the drinker’s intelligence, as well as enhance the senses and intuition,” intoned Hermione. “It is thought to be one of the most capricious potions created by man.”
“Absolutely right!” Slughorn said happily, and Hermione beamed. “And who can tell me what the main component in brewing... Oho, yes, Miss Granger?”
“The main component in brewing the Scintillation Solution are ground scarab beetles, sir.”
“Accurate as ever!” praised Slughorn. “And I assume you know what the reason for that is...?”
“It’s because scarab beetles, like all other animals and creatures with magical properties, retain some of their magical features even after death. When used as a potion ingredient, those features surface, altering the potion accordingly – that is why scarab beetles are so volatile,” recited Hermione. “The purpose of using ground scarab beetles in potioneering is usually to improve the drinker’s concentration, increase brain power, or boost one’s confidence. However, the properties of whole beetles are virtually opposite, meaning that an entirely different potion would be brewed if ground scarab beetles were to be replaced with whole ones.
Additionally, caution must be taken with preparing the beetles, as they are known to emit fumes while being ground. Although not very toxic, when inhaled in large doses, the fumes...”
Hermione went on and on. As he glanced to his left, Harry saw Ron staring mindlessly at Hermione's hair, spacing out. To tell the truth, Harry was feeling rather dull himself that morning. He hoped Slughorn would have them learn boring theory for the next several classes, if only to make up for the gruelling three weeks he’d granted them so far. At least they had been allowed to brew most of these ridiculously demanding potions in pairs, rather than individually.
Hermione must have finished speaking now, because Slughorn looked ecstatic. “Perfectly said, Miss Granger!” he said, to Hermione’s obvious delight. “Why, I do believe you’ve just won your house twenty points – a reward well deserved. Indeed, what Miss Granger said is true. Fortunately, in case of an overdose, countering the effects of the Scintillation Solution is much easier than brewing the potion itself, as a single sip of the Calming Draught will do the job.” Slughorn rubbed his large stomach thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see... not much else can be said for the Scintillation Solution, except that it is better drank quickly, as the taste is quite unpleasant.” He waved his wand at the blackboard, and a list of ingredients and instructions started to write itself. “Everyone, look at the board now, and read the instructions very carefully... When you’re done... well, you know what to do! Start brewing, and remember to grind the scarab beetles – unless you want to end up with a strong Dizziness Draught and a failing mark!”
The classroom broke into life as everyone set about preparing their Scintillation Solutions.
“He wasn’t joking when he said this is gonna be tedious,” Ron grumbled, inspecting the blackboard gloomily. Harry looked at it as well. Indeed, it seemed Slughorn had been serious – the whole board was covered with scribbles that were instructions and names of ingredients.
“Come on,” Harry said with a sigh. “Let’s set everything up. The sooner we get this done, the better.”
They quickly divided roles: Ron shuffled away to get the necessary ingredients, while Harry was left to incite the fire under their cauldron. All the while, Slughorn busied himself with strolling about the classroom and peeking into the cauldrons of the more enthusiastic students. Of course, Hermione (who had paired up with Padma Patil) was far ahead of everyone – she was already grinding the scarab beetles.
A minute of two later, Ron came back with the ingredients, which he dumped on the table beside their cauldron. “Here goes nothing,” he said with a yawn.
Harry looked at the blackboard once more. “Let’s see... Why don’t you crush the mistletoe berries, while I grind the ruddy beetles? Then we can mix it, and there’ll only be, like,” he paused to consult the board again, “thirteen steps to go.”
Ron shrugged and nodded, and they began preparing their potion.
“How is it that we’ve got to suffer through double Potions on Monday again, anyway?” Ron groused a moment later. “It was the same in sixth year, remember?”
“Was it?” said Harry, half-heartedly grinding the beetles in the mortar. “I say, better double Potions on Monday than Friday.”
Ron’s reply was cut off by a yelp a few tables away. Their eyes swivelled in that direction, and Ron huffed. “Those snakes. We’d all be feeling ten times better about Potions, if the Slytherins weren’t in the class. Or in any class, really.”
Of course, as N.E.W.T.-level students, they shared every class with the eight years from all four Houses. The Potions class was exceptionally unpopular, with only nine students remaining.
Harry only shrugged as he looked at the two Slytherins in the classroom. It seemed the yelp had come from Nott, who was inspecting the hem of his scorched robes. Beside him, Malfoy was shaking his head.
“Are you done with the beetles, mate?” asked Ron.
Looking away, Harry nodded and put the pestle away. “Damn, this stuff stinks,” he said, as he peeked into the mortar – the beetles in it were ground into powder.
Ron leaned in to take a cautious whiff. “I don’t smell anything,” he said, looking confused. Harry didn’t understand how Ron couldn’t have smelt it – now that he stopped grinding, the stench was impossible to miss.
Covering his nose, he said, “Maybe you’re gonna have a cold or something. C’mon, add your mistletoe berries here, and I’ll mix it.”
When Ron poured the crushed berries into the mortar, Harry cast a spell which quickly mixed the ingredients together, without anything getting outside the confines of the bowl. Then, Harry dumped the contents into the cauldron. Following the instructions on the blackboard, Ron took a ladle to stir the potion three times clockwise. The smell was gone, and the potion became olive green in colour.
“Oh, bugger,” Harry said, frowning at their concoction. “It was supposed to turn yellow.”
It was hardly the first time their potion seemed to be botched right at the start. Harry miserably hoped Slughorn wouldn’t feel like taking a stroll by their table today.
“Merlin’s holey underpants, this day’s just getting better and better,” Ron said irritably, as he rummaged through their ingredients.
“What’s wrong? Besides the obvious...” said Harry, eyeing their potion.
“We’re supposed to have eight shrivelfigs, but I’ve brought only seven.”
Harry looked at the blackboard, and then at their shrivelfigs – indeed, they needed one more in order to complete the next step. In his peripheral vision, Harry glimpsed Slughorn coming in their direction, and he made a quick decision. “I’ll go fetch it,” he said. He did not want to deal with Slughorn, when their potion was coming along so poorly.
After manoeuvring his way between the students and their cauldrons, he finally reached the closet at the back of the classroom. He opened the door and slipped in.
Inside, it was even cooler than in the dungeons in general, and light was sparse. Rubbing his arms against the biting chill, Harry walked further into the room to inspect the labels on the shelves.
To his irritation, the ingredients were not positioned in alphabetical order. In fact, Harry thought there wasn’t any order to speak of. A box containing jobberknoll feathers was placed beside a jar with pickled slugs, and silverweed could be found next to mistletoe berries. This was why Harry tended to avoid this storeroom. At least back when Snape had been the Potions Master, everything was neat and the ingredients were easy to find. Slughorn, it seemed, preferred to keep things in disarray.
Resolving to start from the bottom, Harry knelt down in front of the stand. He had a vague recollection that was where Snape used to store the shrivelfigs – perhaps, with some luck, they would still be there. Half a minute later, his search was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. Harry tensed a bit when he turned around. In the doorframe stood Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy seemed thrown by Harry’s presence, but he collected himself and closed the door. For a moment, they watched one another in silence, until Harry, still kneeling, returned to scanning the labels. He didn’t turn to face the stand fully, though; who knew what Malfoy might do once Harry’s back was turned? Harry wasn’t sure where he stood with Malfoy now, but he knew they weren’t friends. He didn’t trust Malfoy in a room without witnesses, when Harry was wandless.
The deliberate tack-tack sound of Malfoy’s shoes on the stone floor was loud in the closet, and it was becoming louder. Staring down at a jar of rat tails, Harry waited with baited breath. For some reason, he was getting excited. He wanted something to happen. When Malfoy stopped right next to him, Harry licked his lips. Was Malfoy going to try to pick a fight with him? Start a conversation?
However, Malfoy did nothing. Strangely, Harry found that irritating – if Malfoy was going to just stand there, then Harry would rather have him step away. He looked up to demand just that, but then he saw Malfoy’s attention was not even on him – he was only inspecting the shelves.
Thoroughly upset for reasons he couldn’t understand, Harry huffed and stood up. He kept staring until finally he got a reaction. Malfoy glanced at him, turned away, and then looked at him again.
“What the hell is your problem, Potter?” he demanded.
Harry raised an eyebrow. “Nothing,” he said, before returning to his search for shrivelfigs. From the corner of his eye, he could see Malfoy shake his head, but he ignored it. A moment later, Malfoy seemed to have found what he had been looking for. He reached for a small, blue bottle on which the label was hidden from Harry’s view. Furtively, Harry cast a glance at where the bottle had been situated instead – the now empty spot on the shelf was labelled ‘Billywig stings’.
Harry found this odd. He didn’t remember billywig stings being needed for the potion they were making in class now.
“Stealing isn’t very polite, you know,” he told Malfoy. “Does Slughorn know you’re taking those?”
“Mind your own business,” said Malfoy as he shrugged a few billywig stings into a vial he’d extracted from his robes. “Maybe I need them for class – how would you know, anyway? You’re hopeless at Potions.”
“Maybe I’m not as hopeless as you think,” returned Harry.
“Doubtful.”
Harry scowled. “I think you’re plotting something again,” he lied, just to be aggravating. “I’ll find out what you plan to do with those billywig stings.”
“Potter,” Malfoy said with a roll of his eyes. “Not that it’s a new thing, but you’re embarrassing yourself. Sod off.” He put away the bottle of billywig stings. Then, he reached towards the second-highest shelf, from where he drew out a jar of, apparently, frog brains.
Harry said nothing, because something else captured his attention. For there, on the highest shelf, right above the empty spot left by frog brains, was a carton box named ‘Shrivelfigs’.
Relieved, Harry stood on his toes, reached his arm out, and tried to grab it, but to no avail – he only seized air. Holding onto the edge of a shelf, he tried to reach higher, and this time his fingertips grazed the box. As he strained to bring the box closer to the edge, the shelves rattled dangerously. Frowning, Harry took a step back. It was no good, he thought – he wouldn’t be able to get the box down without splaying the contents onto the floor, or taking the whole stand down as well.
Why had he left his wand in the classroom, was the question Harry was asking himself. It was just his luck. Ron was probably becoming impatient, but there was nothing for it. Harry would have to return to the classroom, get his wand, and come back here to –
A long-fingered hand appeared in Harry’s peripheral vision – Malfoy was putting the jar of frog brains back. Harry suddenly realised he didn’t have to fetch his wand at all. Malfoy, who was taller, could get the box for him.
“Hey,” he said, stopping Malfoy from leaving. “Look, I need a shrivelfig, but the box is too high up. And I don’t have my wand on me, so I can’t get it down...” he trailed off, looking at Malfoy significantly and hoping he would take the hint and help.
But Malfoy was clearly intending to make this difficult. “So?” was all he said.
Harry gritted his teeth. “Well, I don’t really feel like going back to the classroom to fetch my wand, just to come back here for one bloody shrivelfig. You’re taller, so you’ll probably be able to reach the box. So if you could just...” He made a vague motion with his hand.
“If I could just...?”
It occurred to Harry that Malfoy was probably enjoying this – he was fairly sure he’d seen the corner of his mouth twitch. Fed up, Harry snapped, “Well, will you take it down for me, or are you waiting for me to get on my knees and beg?”
That was, apparently, an amusing thing to say. Malfoy wasn’t holding back his smirk anymore, and one of his eyebrows lifted.
“Shut up,” Harry said, even though Malfoy hadn’t even opened his mouth. “You wish I would do that,” he added.
He didn’t know why he’d just said that. He had a vague thought he should feel embarrassed now, but that didn’t happen. He was feeling strangely bold instead.
Malfoy looked at him with both eyebrows raised. “Spare me,” he said, sneering. “Keep your fantasies to yourself, Potter.”
In response, Harry just angled his head up to glance at the shelf, and then pointedly looked back at Malfoy. He didn’t feel self-conscious, and he wanted Malfoy to know that.
Finally, Malfoy moved. The dim-lit closet was once again filled with the sound of Malfoy’s measured steps as he approached the stand.
He stopped in front of Harry and paused, evidently expecting him to step away, but Harry didn’t budge. He didn’t want to. Malfoy would either have to ask him to move, or just reach above Harry to grab the box.
Malfoy did the latter. He wasn’t smirking anymore. His arm stretched above Harry’s shoulder and his grey eyes narrowed. All the while, Harry didn’t drop his gaze. He could taste adrenaline in his mouth, and his heart was beating like a hammer against his ribcage. He wanted Malfoy to do something, he wanted to provoke him – into doing what, Harry didn’t know, but the drive was there. He felt like he could do anything, and get away with anything.
They were inches apart, their chests almost touching. Malfoy had stilled, his hand lingering up on the shelf, and his body close. Harry knew his movements were deliberately slow. With his back against the stand and his head tilted back awkwardly to maintain the eye contact in such proximity, Harry felt completely crowded, but it was good. It was what he wanted. He wasn’t sure what else he wanted, aside from Malfoy reacting in one way or another, but he was confident he could get it.
Malfoy licked his lips. “What are you playing at?” he asked in a low voice. Harry’s eyes had instinctively lowered to follow the movement of his mouth. He instantly glanced up again, but somehow, he couldn’t will himself to hold Malfoy’s gaze anymore.
“Nothing,” he breathed. For some reason, it seemed he was unable to keep his eyes on one area on Malfoy’s face for more than two seconds. He was feeling more dizzy the longer they stood there. His heartbeat was going positively crazy. Suddenly, he wasn’t quite so self-assured. He started to wonder about himself; what was he doing? What had he been thinking?
Malfoy swallowed, and like a moth to flame Harry’s attention was drawn to his Adam’s apple. Even with his head no longer uncomfortably tipped back, Harry couldn’t gather his thoughts. His legs felt like jelly, and his breathing was too fast. He could smell Malfoy’s aftershave.
Harry closed his eyes. Now bereft of his irrational self-confidence, he found himself at a loss. Malfoy was a dick, he knew this. Harry also knew he shouldn’t react to his closeness this way, but he was so turned on he couldn’t think clearly. This wasn’t what he’d wanted to achieve – or maybe it was. He couldn’t remember anymore. It was like he’d just come out of a trance. He’d been acting like a loon.
“Are you going to take it, or stand there for all eternity?”
“What?” croaked Harry, eyes flying open. Malfoy was holding the box of shrivelfigs out to him. Harry hadn’t even realised Malfoy had stepped away, but suddenly the potion storeroom seemed to be several degrees colder than half a minute earlier.
Forcing himself into action, Harry jumped forward and snatched the box from Mafoy. “Thanks,” he bit out sharply.
Malfoy’s eyes narrowed and glinted with something like amusement. “Yeah, no problem,” he drawled, turning to leave. “Next time you might want to pay more attention in class, though – so you don’t get yourself drugged again, you know.”
Before Harry could process this, Malfoy was already out the door. Harry was left in silence, the box of shrivelfigs held awkwardly in both hands. He looked down at the shrivelfigs, then back at the door, and then he let his eyelids close. He breathed out shakily.
What in Merlin’s name had just happened?