An Accident Called Life
Harry's life keeps him up at night. Well, maybe not his life as much as his lack thereof. He's not necessarily the smartest one in his class, but he's got good instincts, and he's learned from his mistakes as well as can be expected of anyone his age. By any stretch of the imagination Harry's done well for himself, and he deserves to be happy. Or at the very least he deserves to be able to sleep at night without the threat of torrential sex dreams keeping him awake and more than a bit disconcerted.
Anyone else might not see the problem, but that's them; that's not Harry, and this particular night is going on forever, he's sure of it. He knows that it's not possible for one night to last forever -- except somewhere in the North Pole -- but this night, with the clock's incessant tick-ticking and the stillness of the shadows in the corners gives him pause because maybe time has stopped, or maybe he has.
Harry doesn't feel himself getting older, but he knows it's happening. Time is passing him by. Harry's learned that the more he fights something the harder it becomes to resist -- like eating Ron's last Chocolate Frog when he knows that Ron's been saving it, or using the Invisibility Cloak for less than honourable means when he's supposed to be setting an example. But really, Harry never asked to be anyone role model, and only a completely feckless idiot would follow him on his nighttime jaunts in the garden, or down to the Dursley's kitchen, or into Dudley's room to rearrange the order of his video games. All the same, Harry can't really be blamed because he's gotten this far by listening to his instincts, and if he's supposed to save the world then he needs to practice his stealthiness. If that's even a word.
Nevertheless, Harry understands that there's only so much resisting of temptation that anyone is capable of. Regardless of age or destiny or sheer-willpower. After all Harry has set every fibre in his being against having sordid sex dreams about Draco Malfoy, but it doesn't seem to be helping matters.
Not that Harry would ever admit to having sordid and prurient dreams about Malfoy, but if he did, and if it woke him up seven nights consecutively while Ron snored on across the room then perhaps there might be a problem. Or it could just be down to the size of Ron's room in the Burrow and a sudden onslaught of claustrophobia that Harry never suffered from when he lived underneath the stairs. But half three in the morning is an appalling time to try and rationalise anything. Malfoy related or not. Sexuality related or not. Not that one has anything to do with the other, but when Harry keeps thinking about the Malfoy smirk and the Malfoy hands and all sorts of things that never had a preposition or any sort of possession attached to them several weeks ago, he finds himself a bit concerned.
Any normal boy would just wander off to the loo, take care of business, and chalk the entire thing up to a dream in the morning, but Harry's been having the same dream every night: Malfoy, summarily naked and trussed up in Harry's cot at the Burrow with Harry not exactly covered up himself.
The thought rings so loudly in Harry's head that when the floorboards creak, presumably from Genghis the Ghost, Harry almost has a very serious accident. Thoughts can't be heard though, he's sure of it, even in the Burrow. Still, if that creak is actually Ron rolling over because Harry's been thinking too loudly, and then Ron catches sight of him sitting up in his bed very much not asleep, there could be repercussions or explanations and that's not on at all. So, Harry will simply slide back down under the duvet and pretend that he's asleep, even if he's not.
Except that Harry knows that the more he fights it, the more the dreams will persist. Surely it's all down to excitement over the start of his last year at Hogwarts. After all, Harry has the kind of hormones that cause him to have an erection when he's just making his bed so of course thoughts of Malfoy are going to, well, keep him up, but that's all there is to it. There's no point in him waking Ron. Point in fact, Harry would be best served by rolling over on his back, counting the cracks in the ceiling and the scuffling of Pig on his perch, and pretending that nothing's wrong at all.
It's just life.
Harry has never considered himself a Peeping Tom, but he might have to rethink this idea. He's already had to reconsider his Potions homework and his sexuality so a bit more work in the scheme of things doesn't bother him much. However, the erection that he's battling right now does. If Harry had someone in his life then maybe it might be easier to swallow the sight before him, but things being as they are all he can do is stare.
Harry Potter doesn't have boyfriends. He has boy 'friends' certainly, but in regards to having a boyfriend, well, then, no. Not for lack of trying, well, not for lack of half-hearted trying at any rate. Perhaps if Harry applied himself in the way that he always does towards the end of the school year when the world is about to end and he really doesn't want to go back to the Dursley's then things might be different. But they aren't. Things are what they are, and Harry is very very single and obviously he's the only one. Or if he's not the only one, at the very least he can't count his mates in his company.
Ron and Hermione.
He's always known that there was something there between them, but he never would have thought that they would come to this. Not that he's ever thought about Ron and Hermione together in that way, but as pairings go they could definitely do worse, and he doubts that this is an accident. People don't just trip and wind up against walls sucking face, not this noisily at any rate. Of course, Ron and Hermione probably never thought that they would be found snogging away in the Charms corridor so there is that to consider. It's not as though Harry has designs upon Ron or anything - gay, yes, forced into unrequited love for his straight best mate, no. And really, unless there's some sort of massive backfiring in the spell department, he doesn't fancy Hermione either. She's lovely, yes, but severely lacking Harry's preferred equipment all the same.
Still, there they are and here he is, and as it's Halloween it's certainly not a prank. No, it's definitely not a prank or Polyjuice and they are most definitely making out in the corridor. Harry should just turn around and go back to wherever he came from, but he's fascinated by them in the way that single people often are by couples. It's not jealousy, just a wistful pang that they have something that he doesn't.
All Harry has are persisting dreams about Draco Malfoy and an erection from watching his mates do things that he hasn't done but very much wants to. Someday. With someone. But watching Ron and Hermione together makes Harry very aware of his youth and their youth and the way that time has passed. Everyone is definitely getting older. Harry's definitely getting older. They're not a bunch of scared first years anymore and life is happening right before Harry's eyes and not for the first time Harry has a sense that it's happening without him. As thoughts go it's extremely disconcerting, but not as much as turning away and rounding the corner only to collide with Malfoy sans minions.
Sometimes Harry's suspects his life is one big accident.
There are accidents and then there are 'accidents'. Harry literally running into Draco Malfoy in the main hall could certainly qualify for the former as well as the latter, and that's something that Harry desperately does not want to examine too closely. Just as he doesn't want Malfoy to examine him too closely.
He hates the traitorous nature of his body sometimes.
"Are those glasses purely for show, Potter, or are they actually supposed to do something?" Malfoy sneers and Harry stares. He's spent plenty of time around Malfoy over the last seven years and honestly the git doesn't do anything for him. Except that he's hot, and Harry is a stupid hormonal boy who gets a hard-on from sitting on his broom for longer than two seconds.
"Piss off, Malfoy," Harry spits out, attempting to side-step eleven stone of Slytherin without actually getting too close. For a hall the size of a train station, Malfoy seems to be infringing mightily on Harry's personal space. Any closer and Malfoy might start breathing on him, or looking at him, or Merlin only knows what.
"That's not very Christmasy of you, Potter. What's wrong, missing the holiday spirit? Afraid you won't get what you really want?"
Quite the opposite as it would turn out, but Harry has no intention of explaining to Malfoy. Merlin forbid Harry actually get what he's been dreaming about. It's only Harry's imagination that Malfoy winks at him. Surely he'd never be so bold. Even Malfoy's bound to have some limits. "Which part of 'sod off' is escaping you, Malfoy?"
"The part where you actually want me to go away." Malfoy's mouth is twitching in the most peculiar manner, and Harry can't bring himself to stop staring at it.
"I always want you to go away, Malfoy." Harry stands behind exactly what he's said except for the bit where Malfoy's eyes rove over him like he's the last bit of treacle pudding on the table.
"Hate to see me go, but love to watch me leave. Is that it, Potter?" Malfoy's lips are moving and words are coming out, but Harry's still stuck on the watching Malfoy leave part. He can't possibly be that obvious. "I don't know why you keep fighting it, Potter."
There's a lot of sputtering. Harry's sure it's all on his part. His instincts are screaming a hundred different things about staying and going and snogging and he doesn't have time for this. Not that he has someplace else to be, but anyplace has to be better than mucking about and playing word games with Malfoy when Harry's already tormented enough. "I'm not fighting anything, Malfoy."
"Of course you are. You fancy me. You practically salivate every time you see me." Bloody hell. It's worse than Harry has imagined. Malfoy has noticed his 'predicament' that must be it. He'll never hear the end of this, except if that were really the case then Malfoy wouldn't be circling him like a vulture, he'd just go in for the kill. Right?
"Planning on getting over yourself anytime this year, Malfoy?"
Malfoy's mouth twitches again, and Harry feels very much like a Mandrake that's about to be dissected. There's a very noticeable pause in the conversation when Malfoy stops dead in front of Harry and considers him appraisingly. Whatever Harry's expecting Malfoy to say, it's not, "I will when you do."
A stock card with IOU on it does not a Valentine make. Not that Harry was expecting anything particular on Valentine's Day, but he wasn't not expecting anything either.
Perhaps this is what he gets for the persisting state of his dating life, or lack there of. It's February of his seventh year at Hogwarts, and Harry still hasn't found himself a something or other. Any way he looks at it, it's an extraordinarily sad state of affairs. At least Malfoy had that thing with Pansy Parkinson and there were rumours abounding concerning him and Blaise Zabini, but Harry really has no reason to compare his life to Malfoy's. It's not as though he's particularly interested in Malfoy, even though the lower half of Harry's body has yet to pick up on that message. Really, how sad can he get?
Lying in bed, alone, pointedly not jerking off while thinking about the idiot that he fancies, but can't bring himself to say anything to because he's afraid of who knows what. Some life for The Boy Who'll Probably Never Get Any. Truthfully, the only thing Harry's life suffers from, apart from the possibility of it ending rather abruptly, is the typical teenage fear of rejection, because rejection really does kill no matter what anyone might say. All the same, thinking of Malfoy isn't really the point, although what the point is Harry's not really sure.
That's what everyone says about life.
He's not sure what he's looking for, or what exactly he wants, but Harry knows he's had his fill of singing cards and Bertie Botts with only the red and pink beans remaining. That's for the younger years, and everyone has moved on except for him. Dean, Seamus, Neville and Ginny - together. Ron apparently went to some trouble to arrange a secret assignation in Hogsmeade for he and Hermione, and Harry had even been required to loan them his cloak. They had gone off smiling and whispering and Harry had faked a grin the best way he knows how, but now it's two in the morning post-Valentine's Day and all Harry has are some very glittery, very feminine cards from one or two enterprising forth years and nothing else. Well, nothing else he can make head or tales of because someone owes him what exactly? A piece of starched paper with IOU flashing in green and gold and silver and blue? That's not a hint; it's a bloody mystery. There's a colour for every house in the school and what if it's not really for him at all?
What if he's just living someone else's life?
Harry Potter is a doodler. That is to say that when his mind cannot be amused by the task at hand he tends to draw and scribble and makes little nonsensical lines on his parchment in the manner that he's currently undertaken. After all nobody likes to study except Hermione, so he can't really be faulted.
There are certain lots in life that Harry's come to accept: dead parents, insufferable fame, wayward hair and his all time favorite: his inability to find himself a 'partner.' The word 'lover' would imply that Harry was in it for the sex, and not that he's not interested in the sexual aspect, but as a virgin, calling someone his lover is a bit laughable. 'Significant other' makes Harry think of Sirius and Remus, and he's not that old yet. Which really only leaves him with gender-of-choice -- friend or 'partner', and partner is a good word. Like a partner-in-crime. So, a partner it is, but doodling Malfoy's name in the margins of his Charms paper doesn't associate one with the other.
"Have tea with me, Potter?"
Harry knows the voice; he knows his hands are never going to move fast enough to cover up his doodles. Times such as these require diversionary tactics, and Harry doesn't have to turn his head to see that Malfoy is once again not observing the rules of personal space.
"Piss off, Malfoy." Brilliant diversion. If Harry could blame someone else for his life then it wouldn't be called his life it would be called something else like Malfoy's Life or Ron's Life or Hedwig's Life for Owls, but that's not the case, and really he needs to stop staring at his parchment and look Malfoy in the face. "Why would I ever have tea with you?"
"Because we have things to discuss, Potter."
Surprisingly, for Harry at the least, Malfoy's not smirking or grinning or doing any of those trademark things that everyone seems to associate him with, he might even be nervous. It's very disconcerting. On anyone else it might be endearing. "Don't be daft. You think just because it's April Fool's Day that I'm going to walk into whatever you've got planned? You must be mad."
"Is it really April Fool's?" Malfoy almost looks surprised. Almost. It must be a trap. "That's of no matter, the topic of conversation isn't going to go anywhere, Potter. We can't avoid it forever, although Mordred knows I've tried."
When did he and Malfoy become a 'we'? Obvious there's something extraordinarily wrong right now, but it's rather hard for Harry to focus on that because this is the first time since Christmas they've had a 'conversation'. Sarcastic remarks and barbs in Potions and Care of Magical Creatures don't count, those are just necessary for their continued survival. Without Malfoy to give rise to Harry's emotions Harry's not sure what kind of life he'd have left. There's only so much preparation anyone can do for the upcoming end of the world, and Malfoy has these circles under his eyes that Harry's not noticed before. "What on earth could you and I have to talk about?"
"There's that matter of an IOU..." Malfoy knows about the IOU. Of course he does. He sent it. Really, Harry knows this. He always has, he's just been distracted with his NEWTS and the whole encroaching forces of evil and his very vivid, purely dream-oriented, sex life. Malfoy must know about two of these three things, and it's obvious a trap, a very well laid trap with a full bottom lip. Bollocks.
Harry's never had sex. He's never even snogged another boy. If Harry's going to die, correction: since he's going to die eventually, it would be a pity to die a virgin. He could do a lot worse than Malfoy -- although he's not quite sure how.
"What IOU, Malfoy?"
"Your memory is appalling, no wonder you do so poorly in Potions. You do remember our conversation at Christmas, don't you?" Yes, Harry might have thought about it once or twice. Or more.
"No."
"You're lying," Malfoy's grasp of personal space obviously needs serious adjusting, because if he were any closer they would be kissing. "You're not over me, I know it."
"Of all the egotistical, deluded, self-serving --"
"But for the sake of argument, lets suppose that I'm not over you, either," Malfoy says, cutting Harry off just as he's working himself into a serious lather.
"I didn't know there was anything to get over," Harry says, slightly confused and more than a bit lost. Quite obviously life has decided to speed up without warning him, yet again. First, it goes too slow, now, it's too fast. Life should really make up its mind before there's an accident, like... like Malfoy nipping Harry's earlobe.
"Don't you think that that's the problem?" Malfoy offers, upon finally pulling his mouth away from Harry's ear.
Surely someone else besides Harry squeaks, "Yes."