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mildlunacyisn't all it's cracked up to be.
being in love is sort of all it's cracked up to be, as long as you're not too cracked up yourself.
being alone sucks, but i've got harry, now haven't i (don't look at me like that, dammit! ack..!)
um. i've consented to being vicarious. i -love- being vicarious. if i am hopeless then so be it, but... ha, at least i can create my own dreams.
i wish you everything, harry james potter. *smooches*
~~once upon moonlight.
The curtains barely rustled as the figure hovered outside them, a touch away from the opened window. Draco Malfoy was holding his breath. The lights were off throughout the house, but he was still horribly nervous. If anything didn't go according to plan, there'd be hell to pay. He wasn't at all sure he wasn't certifiably insane for even considering this course of action, let alone going through with it. He shook his head ruefully at himself. If he was certifiable, the certificate was certainly signed the first time he spotted Harry-bloody-Potter. At times, if he thought about how it was all his fault for long enough, he actually felt better. Stronger, in comparison. He knew his powers of self-delusion were great, and of course he was proud of it. A very useful skill. Quite useless at this moment, though. He glanced up at the full, pockmarked-looking moon hanging low in the sky above him. It seemed to be mocking him. The air seemed to whoosh and catch at him, whispering and laughing, it seemed, with a hundred night-time voices. He'd better move fast.
He got out his wand, his hand amazingly steady, considering the rest of his body was shaking, with what he would insist was a slight chill in the air. He had spent a considerable amount of time getting the spell just right-- it was a variant on several spells, but not quite like any of them-- not quite of the Dark Arts, not quite an innocuous charm. He steered clear of things promising to re-create Sleeping Beauty, though it was tempting. He saw so many references to that particular fairytale in his readings, he actually began to wonder if it was true-- if true love could be wakened with a kiss, from the most mortal of dark spells. Seemed like some tipsy tale a Hufflepuff would dream up on a cold winter's eve. Draco considered himself much more sensible than that. This had nothing to do with beauty, sleeping or otherwise. It was simply a matter of convenience and, in fact, the only way he could do this at all.
He highly doubted Harry Potter would invite him in, if he showed up uninvited, floating silently outside his window. It was in fact highly probable that he'd spell-blast him after getting one glance at him and realizing his identity. Not that he wouldn't do the same to Harry if the situations were reversed, of course. Sighing irritably at his runaway musings, he aimed the wand at the sleeping boy's head through the open window and began his incantation. At that moment, he felt a lot more like the evil fairy creature that cursed the hero, rather than kissed him awake. And of course, he had no intentions of kissing him awake, anyway, and in fact wakefulness would undoubtedly be quite disastrous. He told himself he was here to get something by Potter, to have the knowledge that he'd gotten something past him, in this game he'd just invented, he had won. The prince asleep, the one who cursed him celebrating. This was particularly fitting, in keeping, considering what day it was. Draco was very amused at playing the part of a fantasy villain with as much flair as possible. He felt he had a knack for it, even. A gift, you might say. It was really a pity the main villain spot was presently taken-- Draco was sure he could do it much more elegantly. Voldemort definitely lacked proper style, that much was certain.
As the spell finished, and Draco felt that certain tingle in the back of his neck, nothing really changed. Potter didn't start to glow, certainly, and rose briars didn't shoot suddenly along the walls, for which Draco was actually grateful, since that would be a bitch to undo. Slipping into the room with the ease of a practiced thief (which he was, from boredom as well as occasional necessity, though of escape rather than entrance), Draco walked confidently the few steps to the single bed standing to the left side of the window. He was tempted to test his skills, with a kiss perhaps. A part of him hesitated, for reasons suspiciously at odds with his self-acknowledged role as the spellcaster, rather than that of lifter and savior, hinted at by kisses. Many things depended on him keeping his roles straight, in his head at least. But the longer he looked at the sleeping idiot, the more confusing it all seemed to be. Hatred and malice seemed too loud, and irritating, to feel very strongly, right then. Everything seemed to still-- suspended in the kind of enchanted, impossible moment he'd thought existed only in fairytales of one sort or another. He still didn't believe in it, as it happened, but neither could he turn away. Caught and frozen, he stood quite still by the languid light of the moon. He moved slowly, so very slowly, but inexorably forwards, as if in a dream. He reached out, and there he was. Soft and real, too real almost.
"Potter," he breathed, not meaning to, not meaning to move, or breathe for that matter. The prone figure in front of him, shrouded by shadows and awfully white sheets, slumbered on, giving no signal it was in any way enchanted. It remained for someone else to kiss him, awake or asleep, he knew. But tonight, Harry was his to touch, by the shadows the moon set to dancing on the walls, by the soft, liquid rustles that spoke of secrets kept safely under the cloak of night. By the stroke of midnight on a hot summer's night, even Draco Malfoy suspended disbelief.
~~
He touched the boy in front of him with unintended reverence, as if he were blind. His fingers softly slipping across skin, barely touching, just the barest brush of a fingertip. His mouth trembled, skimming the surface in the wake of his fingers, his tongue dancing, dipping and swirling in patterns of needful desire. The boy underneath him moaned softly, sighed, but didn't wake. His body was breaking out in goosebumps, and his toes were arching, pulling at the sheets. Draco smiled against Harry's skin.
His arms reached out, stretching atop Harry's chest, sliding across Harry's shoulders, rubbing every inch of his skin across the cool surface of Harry's unconscious form.
He was still, listening to Harry's breath. It seemed the loudest sound in the universe right then. Overcome with some unnamed emotion, he pressed his lips right over Harry's heart. He laid his head against the other boy's chest, feeling singularly content for that one moment. He was just a tangle of sensations, a vortex of emotions. He was what he felt, and no more, and he clung to that freedom.
His tongue moved to the right, circling lazily around a dusky nipple. A low, vibrating sound rumbled from somewhere deep inside Harry, almost like a purr. Draco smiled again. He was in no hurry, and had no destination in mind. He knew if he moved too suddenly, opened his eyes too widely, he'd rise up out of this waking dream, needing release and touch and movement. But he was being very still. Very still, and careful. He needed this to be enough.
His fingers found Harry's, and slipped readily between, squeezing softly. His head was still laying softly on Harry's chest, and the length of Draco's body was tucked perfectly against his side. Draco sighed, exhaling, a long, drawn-out breath. He seemed to release tension more and more, continuously finding new depths of tranquility to sink to, new deposits of tension to drag to the surface and release.
He slid smoothly up Harry's body, until their heads were bent towards each other, Draco's mouth slightly open and breathing against the other's ear. At the first small brush of air against him, Harry shivered, his fingers tightening against Draco's own. "Shhhh...," Draco murmured, kissing the skin nearest to him. "I've got you... I've got you now... shhh...."
The smooth sheets fluttered on top of them, a sudden gust of wind bursting from the window. Pale hair mixed with dark on the pillow, as Draco drifted towards the velvety depths of sleep, peaceful and devoid of dreams.
~~
Upon waking in the early morning, Draco was really glad he'd made sure to be thorough and even redundant in his spell. Harry was still showing no signs of true waking, and only the false reactiveness of the bespelled. For instance, his head was resting on Draco's chest quite comfortably, his fingers curled around Draco's waist, his leg resting atop the other's thigh. Harry's lips were curved in a ridiculously sappy-looking smile. Disgusting, really. But still perfectly enchanted. Draco was quite pleased with himself, but he knew he had to leave, right about now, since he was almost certain Harry didn't live alone in this pathetic little house. He thought he'd heard something at one point about a sadistic aunt and uncle of some sort, though he wasn't sure. His memory was good, but quite selective. Draco wasn't smiling as he slowly untangled his still sleep-heavy limbs from Potter's. He wasn't smiling when he got dressed, silently as he could manage, looking at the sleeping boy's face, his eyelashes fluttering gently on his cheek, his forehead smooth and untroubled, his cheeks lightly flushed, near the temples. He felt ridiculously close to feeling spellbound himself, and what's worse, undisturbed by his folly. Looking at Harry's face right then, the universe would've had to try really hard to have managed being disturbing enough. He heard the early morning birds calling to him from outside, or perhaps only to each other, and that was the only sound, other than his own restless breaths and Harry's deep, peaceful ones.
He walked to the window and stood for a moment, caught in some seemingly half-articulated thought. Something dark and undefined passed briefly across his face, and his eyes flashed, briefly reflecting some stray beam of first light.
"Happy birthday, Harry Potter," he whispered, and then he was outside, and his broom was angling sharply upwards, faster than the eye could easily follow. And on a trailing breath, barely carried by the wind, the words drifted back-- `finite incantatum'.
being in love is sort of all it's cracked up to be, as long as you're not too cracked up yourself.
being alone sucks, but i've got harry, now haven't i (don't look at me like that, dammit! ack..!)
um. i've consented to being vicarious. i -love- being vicarious. if i am hopeless then so be it, but... ha, at least i can create my own dreams.
i wish you everything, harry james potter. *smooches*
~~once upon moonlight.
The curtains barely rustled as the figure hovered outside them, a touch away from the opened window. Draco Malfoy was holding his breath. The lights were off throughout the house, but he was still horribly nervous. If anything didn't go according to plan, there'd be hell to pay. He wasn't at all sure he wasn't certifiably insane for even considering this course of action, let alone going through with it. He shook his head ruefully at himself. If he was certifiable, the certificate was certainly signed the first time he spotted Harry-bloody-Potter. At times, if he thought about how it was all his fault for long enough, he actually felt better. Stronger, in comparison. He knew his powers of self-delusion were great, and of course he was proud of it. A very useful skill. Quite useless at this moment, though. He glanced up at the full, pockmarked-looking moon hanging low in the sky above him. It seemed to be mocking him. The air seemed to whoosh and catch at him, whispering and laughing, it seemed, with a hundred night-time voices. He'd better move fast.
He got out his wand, his hand amazingly steady, considering the rest of his body was shaking, with what he would insist was a slight chill in the air. He had spent a considerable amount of time getting the spell just right-- it was a variant on several spells, but not quite like any of them-- not quite of the Dark Arts, not quite an innocuous charm. He steered clear of things promising to re-create Sleeping Beauty, though it was tempting. He saw so many references to that particular fairytale in his readings, he actually began to wonder if it was true-- if true love could be wakened with a kiss, from the most mortal of dark spells. Seemed like some tipsy tale a Hufflepuff would dream up on a cold winter's eve. Draco considered himself much more sensible than that. This had nothing to do with beauty, sleeping or otherwise. It was simply a matter of convenience and, in fact, the only way he could do this at all.
He highly doubted Harry Potter would invite him in, if he showed up uninvited, floating silently outside his window. It was in fact highly probable that he'd spell-blast him after getting one glance at him and realizing his identity. Not that he wouldn't do the same to Harry if the situations were reversed, of course. Sighing irritably at his runaway musings, he aimed the wand at the sleeping boy's head through the open window and began his incantation. At that moment, he felt a lot more like the evil fairy creature that cursed the hero, rather than kissed him awake. And of course, he had no intentions of kissing him awake, anyway, and in fact wakefulness would undoubtedly be quite disastrous. He told himself he was here to get something by Potter, to have the knowledge that he'd gotten something past him, in this game he'd just invented, he had won. The prince asleep, the one who cursed him celebrating. This was particularly fitting, in keeping, considering what day it was. Draco was very amused at playing the part of a fantasy villain with as much flair as possible. He felt he had a knack for it, even. A gift, you might say. It was really a pity the main villain spot was presently taken-- Draco was sure he could do it much more elegantly. Voldemort definitely lacked proper style, that much was certain.
As the spell finished, and Draco felt that certain tingle in the back of his neck, nothing really changed. Potter didn't start to glow, certainly, and rose briars didn't shoot suddenly along the walls, for which Draco was actually grateful, since that would be a bitch to undo. Slipping into the room with the ease of a practiced thief (which he was, from boredom as well as occasional necessity, though of escape rather than entrance), Draco walked confidently the few steps to the single bed standing to the left side of the window. He was tempted to test his skills, with a kiss perhaps. A part of him hesitated, for reasons suspiciously at odds with his self-acknowledged role as the spellcaster, rather than that of lifter and savior, hinted at by kisses. Many things depended on him keeping his roles straight, in his head at least. But the longer he looked at the sleeping idiot, the more confusing it all seemed to be. Hatred and malice seemed too loud, and irritating, to feel very strongly, right then. Everything seemed to still-- suspended in the kind of enchanted, impossible moment he'd thought existed only in fairytales of one sort or another. He still didn't believe in it, as it happened, but neither could he turn away. Caught and frozen, he stood quite still by the languid light of the moon. He moved slowly, so very slowly, but inexorably forwards, as if in a dream. He reached out, and there he was. Soft and real, too real almost.
"Potter," he breathed, not meaning to, not meaning to move, or breathe for that matter. The prone figure in front of him, shrouded by shadows and awfully white sheets, slumbered on, giving no signal it was in any way enchanted. It remained for someone else to kiss him, awake or asleep, he knew. But tonight, Harry was his to touch, by the shadows the moon set to dancing on the walls, by the soft, liquid rustles that spoke of secrets kept safely under the cloak of night. By the stroke of midnight on a hot summer's night, even Draco Malfoy suspended disbelief.
~~
He touched the boy in front of him with unintended reverence, as if he were blind. His fingers softly slipping across skin, barely touching, just the barest brush of a fingertip. His mouth trembled, skimming the surface in the wake of his fingers, his tongue dancing, dipping and swirling in patterns of needful desire. The boy underneath him moaned softly, sighed, but didn't wake. His body was breaking out in goosebumps, and his toes were arching, pulling at the sheets. Draco smiled against Harry's skin.
His arms reached out, stretching atop Harry's chest, sliding across Harry's shoulders, rubbing every inch of his skin across the cool surface of Harry's unconscious form.
He was still, listening to Harry's breath. It seemed the loudest sound in the universe right then. Overcome with some unnamed emotion, he pressed his lips right over Harry's heart. He laid his head against the other boy's chest, feeling singularly content for that one moment. He was just a tangle of sensations, a vortex of emotions. He was what he felt, and no more, and he clung to that freedom.
His tongue moved to the right, circling lazily around a dusky nipple. A low, vibrating sound rumbled from somewhere deep inside Harry, almost like a purr. Draco smiled again. He was in no hurry, and had no destination in mind. He knew if he moved too suddenly, opened his eyes too widely, he'd rise up out of this waking dream, needing release and touch and movement. But he was being very still. Very still, and careful. He needed this to be enough.
His fingers found Harry's, and slipped readily between, squeezing softly. His head was still laying softly on Harry's chest, and the length of Draco's body was tucked perfectly against his side. Draco sighed, exhaling, a long, drawn-out breath. He seemed to release tension more and more, continuously finding new depths of tranquility to sink to, new deposits of tension to drag to the surface and release.
He slid smoothly up Harry's body, until their heads were bent towards each other, Draco's mouth slightly open and breathing against the other's ear. At the first small brush of air against him, Harry shivered, his fingers tightening against Draco's own. "Shhhh...," Draco murmured, kissing the skin nearest to him. "I've got you... I've got you now... shhh...."
The smooth sheets fluttered on top of them, a sudden gust of wind bursting from the window. Pale hair mixed with dark on the pillow, as Draco drifted towards the velvety depths of sleep, peaceful and devoid of dreams.
~~
Upon waking in the early morning, Draco was really glad he'd made sure to be thorough and even redundant in his spell. Harry was still showing no signs of true waking, and only the false reactiveness of the bespelled. For instance, his head was resting on Draco's chest quite comfortably, his fingers curled around Draco's waist, his leg resting atop the other's thigh. Harry's lips were curved in a ridiculously sappy-looking smile. Disgusting, really. But still perfectly enchanted. Draco was quite pleased with himself, but he knew he had to leave, right about now, since he was almost certain Harry didn't live alone in this pathetic little house. He thought he'd heard something at one point about a sadistic aunt and uncle of some sort, though he wasn't sure. His memory was good, but quite selective. Draco wasn't smiling as he slowly untangled his still sleep-heavy limbs from Potter's. He wasn't smiling when he got dressed, silently as he could manage, looking at the sleeping boy's face, his eyelashes fluttering gently on his cheek, his forehead smooth and untroubled, his cheeks lightly flushed, near the temples. He felt ridiculously close to feeling spellbound himself, and what's worse, undisturbed by his folly. Looking at Harry's face right then, the universe would've had to try really hard to have managed being disturbing enough. He heard the early morning birds calling to him from outside, or perhaps only to each other, and that was the only sound, other than his own restless breaths and Harry's deep, peaceful ones.
He walked to the window and stood for a moment, caught in some seemingly half-articulated thought. Something dark and undefined passed briefly across his face, and his eyes flashed, briefly reflecting some stray beam of first light.
"Happy birthday, Harry Potter," he whispered, and then he was outside, and his broom was angling sharply upwards, faster than the eye could easily follow. And on a trailing breath, barely carried by the wind, the words drifted back-- `finite incantatum'.