InsaneJournal

FIC: Silver Smoke & Shattered Mirrors - Part I - PG-13

Title:	Silver Smoke and Shattered Mirrors
Part I:	Potions Class
Rating:	PC-13
Pairing:	Harry/Draco
Summary:	A lesson in desire
Notes:	Another fic written way back in 2002. The title is so awfully pretentious and portentous I sort of want to die. Oi, was I really this bad of a writer when I was 16? Unfinished, with no plans to finish ever.

I know what he will taste like.

He will taste of vibrant green and sun-dred skin, of yellow tartness and warm breezes, lemony and bitter and salty and sweet on my tongue.

I want to take his lips in mine, to catch that bottom lip between my teeth, to quench my burning thirst with the pool of saliva collected there. I want to run my tongue along two perfect rows of ivoury-white, to trace the contours of his mouth, to lick away the drops of sweat beading his upper lip, tasting his life, his weakness, his innocence.

I want him.

I want Harry Potter.

"Mr. Potter, you are to work with Mr. Malfoy. I suggest you gather your things and move immediately." Sometimes I wonder if Snape is a sado- masochist, drawing perverse sexual pleasure in holing himself away in this mouldy dungeon and setting me against Potter. He has that leering smile on his face, a sick, twisted grin that causes an uncomfortable twisting of my innards.

"I would move now, Mr. Potter."

He rises from his seat, a smooth, unhurried motion. He sheds his robes and casually rolls up his sleeves, gathering his materials almost carelessly and stuffing them into his bag.

He doesn't catch my eyes as he makes his way over from Weasley's side and carefully deposits his lithe, slender form next to mine.

The fine hairs prickle along the back of my neck from being in such close proximity to him. It's as though every fiber of my being, every cell, is leaping out towards Potter, wanting to touch that flawless skin, to feel the heat of his breath, to smell the nights of Quidditch practice in his hair.

"Well, Potter, why don't you get to work?" I drawl, flicking the ash from charred scarab beetles away from me lazily.

Green eyes flash at me and I feel a jolt like lightning zing through me. But he looks down at the table as he arranges the ingredients for the Wakefulness Draught, his long, dark eyelashes casting feathery shadows over his eyes.

No, Potter. Look at me. Look at me and never look away.

"Why don't you get to work, Malfoy," he says irritably.

"I can't; it'll mar my hands," I say daintily, admiring my nails. Let Potter think me a fop, then.

He makes a disgusted noise deep in the back of his throat and sets out to making the potion.

The truth is, I want to see him, to watch him. To allow myself time to scrutinise his every move, each fluid, graceful motion.

How is it possible for someone to be so beautiful?

I casually slide him materials across the table, which he takes without a second glance at me. I want him to; I want him to look up from the Wakefulness Draught and see me, really see me: Draco Malfoy, a boy hopelessly in love, not his father's accessory and toy.

Our fingers brush slightly as I pass him dried witch hazel. I can feel the heat of our brief contact flood my body to burn brightly in my cheeks and ears. Potter's eyes flick my way and I feel a tingling erupt at the base of my skull.

Again, I slide him the things he needs, but this time, I take care to touch him. A blush throws itself across his pure, flawless skin, firing his cheeks with a rush of vitality.

I feel the smirk manifest itself on my lips.

He grabs the ingredients from me quickly, not catching my eyes. His mouth is set in an obstinate line and I find myself wanting to take his godlike face in my hands, to kiss away that hard frown at the corner of his lips, to soften them with my tongue.

He licks them.

Little by little, he adds ingredients to the potion, in the order Snape has written on the blackboard.

Contrary to the popular misbelief, Potter really is a bad Potions student. He's not bullied by Snape, he's not distracted by jeers from the Slytherin table.

See, the little sod forgot the essense of belladonna.

"Potter," I say, "You've forgotten the belladonna."

He glances up quickly at what Snape has written. His brows wrinkle and an angry flush bleeds across his face. He mutters an incoherent curse under his breath, and reaches for the belladonna.

"If I get a bad mark on this assignment, it'll be entirely your fault," I grin.

He continues to ignore me.

No, Potter. Look at me. Look at me, yell at me, hate me...

Only notice me.

My hands clench in frustration and disappointment.

Potter...

I casually rest my hand on the spine of lionfish, the next ingredient to go into the draught. I stare at my hand, willing it to look relaxed, forcing it to lay there calmly.

As Potter chops the dried witch hazel, his knuckles graze the lionfish. So close. So fucking close.

My fingers twitch ever-so-slightly.

His hand reaches for the lionfish, but he grabs my hand instead.

He looks up, startled.

I hold his gaze, staring at him. His green eyes are wide and innocent and surprised. His hand doesn't lift from mine and he seems to be caught in a trance.

Don't move, Potter.

Don't move.

The light catches on his specs and his eyes are lost, obscured by its reflection.

The spell is broken and the moment is gone. Potter quickly snatches his hand away.

Make yourself useful," he says, shoving a pickled shrivelfig at me.

I don't answer him and once more, he glances up from his work to look at me and scrutinise my silence.

I smile.

"Get to work, Malfoy."

His hands tremble slightly as he returns to shredding asphodel roots.