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Author’s Note: Part the second…Thanks to Frances for the beta. Same
dedication as Part the first…
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Worth the Wait, Part 2
By Olivia Lupin
Part 2
I sleep, this time.
More soundly than I have in years. And I wake more rested than I can remember
being in a very long time. You are curled trustingly against me, your back
pressed firmly against my chest, and your hand clasped in mine. I lay quietly
holding you for long moments, content beyond words.
Last night is burned into my memory. Every touch, every taste, the sound of your
sighs and moans, the feeling of completion and the connection between us—unlike
any I’ve known before—they are all engraved deeply into my soul now. And as
amazing as last night was, the physical pleasure on a plane that I’ve never
before dreamed even existed, it is right now—this moment, with you asleep so
deeply and trustingly in my arms—that I will remember for the rest of my life.
Even now, I can’t really comprehend it all; it’s too much to take in. The fact
that I’ve wanted you for so long, waited so long, and now I have you. That
having you was even more than I’ve ever dreamed it could be. And that even with
all that has happened between us, there is so much more. There is now. Right
now.
And this is everything.
It is this—this quiet peace, this feeling of completion that goes soul-deep—that
has been worth the wait.
It comes to me with a suddenness that simultaneously warms me to the core and
chills my blood that this is precisely what I’ve been waiting for.
It is too much. I can’t bear the thought that my need for you is one that
pervades me to the very bone. I’m not ready to deal with the fact that what I
need from you is not simply physical possession but emotional permanence.
This new need…the part of my heart that wants nothing more than this
quietness…is very difficult for me. The other need, the physical one, I can
understand. It can be sated. And if the satisfaction is temporary—if the need
returns—well, then, the release can be found again.
But the physical need was different, too. The thought surfaces quietly,
and I want to shove it away, but it won’t leave me. Reluctantly, I consider it.
My thoughts of you have nearly always focused on my physical desire for you.
Yes, I’ve admitted to myself that I’m in love with you. But somehow I’d always
played that out through bedroom fantasies, letting the admitted emotional need
manifest itself only through scenarios in which the physical need was
predominant.
And in that way, my love for you always seemed ‘safe’. After all, I kept it
always focused on physical desire, and I never let myself ever really consider
the possibility that it would be returned. You’ve always seemed so…unattainable.
And where there was no possibility, there could be no rejection.
Now, that has changed. The physical piece of what I feel for you has now been
inextricably woven with a constant awareness of the depth of the emotional
piece. Now, I am open to you in a way I never was before. If you reject me now,
after what we have shared…My thoughts break off and I recall with a clarity that
would most likely surprise you exactly how I felt when you refused to take my
hand on the train all those years ago.
I was so deeply hurt. While part of that was my pride (and as a Malfoy, I
understood that very clearly, even at age eleven), there was something else that
I didn’t understand, but that cut much more deeply. My heart literally ached. I
was crushed. In the time that has passed since then, I have come to understand
that the larger part of the hurt was because I wanted so badly for you to like
me the way I did you, and you didn’t.
And now. Oh, Harry. The power you have over me, now. My arms tighten around you,
reflexively, and I force myself to relax. My left arm is draped over you, and I
move my hand to push gently through the tangle of your hair.
You don’t even move. I’m caught, suspended in the moment, thinking that if you
would just sleep forever in my arms, all would be well. But you won’t,
obviously, you will wake and then I don’t know what will happen. So in what I
freely admit is a deliberate attempt to stave off the inevitable, I decide to
wake you in a way that will, I hope, ultimately lead to your returning to this
very spot. Asleep. In my arms.
My fingers, still threaded through the soft strands of your hair, move to your
cheek, your neck, trailing down your chest to find a nipple. The skin around it
is soft and warm, the nipple itself flat against the surface of your skin, and I
tease it, very lightly, until it begins to pucker a bit. I abandon it
immediately, then, moving on to your ribs and the taut muscles of your stomach,
and my mouth finds the juncture of your neck and shoulder. If memory serves,
that spot is particularly sensitive for you, and I alternate licks with gentle
bites.
You’re stirring, now, still quite asleep but your body responds instinctively to
my caresses even in slumber. I continue on, my hands and mouth moving over you
as persuasively as I know how, and I feel you wake. You roll onto your back and
stretch, all sleek muscles and grace, and I run my hands the full length of your
body, stopping to tease both nipples into tight buds. You are gorgeous.
“Sleep well?” I’m impatient, now, pushing the sheets away, my mouth re-learning
the territory discovered last night. Your response makes me smile, your ‘yes’
breathy and hitched, your eyes cloudy with sleepy arousal and your legs parting
eagerly at my touch. “Excellent. Then you’re all rested. That’s good to know.”
And without waiting for you to say anything at all, I settle into the open vee
of your thighs and take you into my mouth.
You’re already half-hard, and after a few moments, you’re completely aroused. I
hold your delicious length in my mouth, sucking and tonguing the sensitive skin,
and watch the pleasure wash over your face. I’m very tempted to bring you off
just like this, sprawling spread-eagle in my bed, not yet fully awake, your
mouth open and panting and your eyes half closed, but right now I’ve other
plans. I will please you—and myself—with this delight later. I pull off
reluctantly and grin wickedly as you struggle to open your eyes. “All awake,
now? Let’s shower, shall we?”
~ ~ ~ ~
Later, much later, we have finally finished our lovemaking in the shower and are
tumbling back into the bed. You are amazing. I wanted to stay inside you
forever, moving in that slow, hypnotic rhythm, your body warm and open and eager
and so welcoming. It was there, in the shower, buried in the tight heat of your
body, where I realized that your name was running through my brain like a
litany, the syllables of it repeating in time with my heartbeat, pulsing through
my veins, Harry, Harry….
I have always called sexual partners by endearments. Sweetheart. Darling.
Whatever. Some pet name, some term of supposed affection that has often been
interpreted, I know, as a show of intimacy but what has, in reality, always been
a way of avoiding exactly that. The terms are interchangeable. Impersonal. And
while I don’t recall it being a conscious decision to not use someone’s
given name while in bed with them, I know quite well that I have never done so.
Outside the bedroom, certainly. But not while sharing physical intimacy.
It is, to me, like the intimacy of sleeping, in some ways…sex is intimate in a
very, very physical way. And while that is certainly satisfying, and necessary,
it is by no means the deepest form of intimacy. At least, for me it isn’t.
Because there are other ways to be intimate—emotional and spiritual ways… and I
feel very intimate with you, Harry. In all the ways I have so carefully avoided
becoming intimate with anyone else, over the years.
But, as so many things with you, I seem to have no choice, here. I could no
sooner stop myself from speaking your name while making love to you than I could
stop myself from breathing, and as for sleeping—well, I’ve already said that
I’ve slept better while in bed with you than I have slept by myself in years.
As we ease back into bed and curl into the warmth of each other, I warn myself
against the danger of becoming too used to your being here—too accustomed to
holding you in my arms as I fall asleep. I am nearly successful in battling back
my emotions, but then, with your sweet, soft words, you destroy my safety net.
“Draco.” You burrow into my arms, your face pushing into my neck and your arms
curling around me, and you breathe a sigh of true contentment. “Oh, Draco.” You
sigh again, deeply, and plant a soft, chaste kiss on my neck. “Nice…” You nuzzle
gently, sweetly, into the warmth of my skin. “So nice.” And you are asleep.
And I—I am left with the almost unbearable hope inherent in your murmurings: the
idea that you might truly find peace in my arms, that you might want more than
the physical completion we can give each other.
Keeping the thought firmly at the front of my mind, I drop off into a deep,
dreamless sleep, still holding you close.
~ ~ ~ ~
I watch as you dress. Your movements are naturally graceful but you’re sweetly
self-conscious of my gaze. You have willingly spent the entire day with me and I
think would have stayed the night as well, but some previously arranged meeting
demands your presence. You told me about it hesitantly, almost shyly, and your
preparations to leave have been made with gratifying reluctance.
Your fingers work the clasp of the dress robes you wore last night, and your
hair, still damp from our second shower of the day, defies your attempt to
instill some order to it. I am lounging naked on the bed, mentally removing each
article of clothing from your body as soon as your hands put it on.
Today has been beyond anything I’d hoped for. You stayed for the breakfast I had
brought in, and we ate our way through smoked salmon, fresh fruit, omelets and
coffee, reading the Daily Prophet in companionable silence. After that, you
dozed and I pretended to work, but really I watched you sleep in my bed and
split my time between fantasizing about various ways to wake you back up and
creating different scenarios to distract Pansy with when she corners me for the
inevitable conversation about ‘what happened’ after the celebration.
She will know, of course, that we left together. Enough people saw us leave.
Indeed, the whispers were already starting, but I’ve learned to ignore them, and
I was impressed that you seemed coolly indifferent to the attention we were
drawing. It’s not like I’ll be able to fool Pansy for long, anyway. She is one
of the few people who can see through to the truth with me, and because I trust
her I’ve not bothered much with the effort necessary to hide things from her.
But Pansy, being Pansy, won’t focus so much on what happened right after we
left—she’s not stupid, after all—as she will on what will happen next.
And this is why I’m even bothering to create scenarios: because I don’t know
what will happen next. I know what I’d like to have happen. I’d like to
continue on, just this way. I’d like to read the daily paper with you, and
continue the discussions we started today about the ethical uses of certain
potions and the latest regulations that the Ministry is trying to implement
concerning some of the more restricted ingredients used in making them. I want
to argue over Quidditch teams. I want to hear regular reports on your progress
in becoming an Animagus.
I want to watch you come apart in my arms, and find my own release in yours.
I want to wake up next to you every day.
But you’ve not once given me an indication that you even want to see me again.
Oh, you’ve enjoyed today. That’s been very clear. But I’ve been the one to keep
you here, I’ve been the one to extend your stay to the full day. And for all I’d
like to believe you want to see me again, the fact that you’re obviously going
to leave without even asking me about it makes me uncertain.
And I’ve been the one to initiate everything, so far. Everything from our
physical collision and our extended conversation at the dinner last night, to
the kiss in the gardens and our subsequent lovemaking here at my flat, to the
lazy satisfaction of the entire day—sharing food and quiet, easy companionship
and more exquisite lovemaking—all of it has been the result of my overtures.
Don’t get me wrong. Taking charge, especially where you’re concerned, is not
something I mind in the least. But I need for your agreement to be something
more than simple quiescence. I need for you to be with me because you want
to be, not simply because you’ve nothing else you’d prefer to be doing. And the
surest way I would have, right now, of knowing that this is true would be for
you to ask to see me again. Or to at least tell me that you’d like to.
But you don’t.
Your shy glances, and the way you bite at your lower lip, and the three times
you’ve started to say something and then stopped yourself all tell me that you
want to say something, but I don’t know what it is. I roll off the bed and pull
on a pair of boxers. Your eyes trail over me and a telltale blush rises in your
cheeks—clearly you are anything but indifferent to me, and knowing that finally
gives me the courage I need to say, just as you are ready to leave, “Have dinner
with me tomorrow night.”
My voice is casual, dispassionate—as if your answer doesn’t matter much one way
or the other to me, but nothing could be further from the truth, and I realize
that fact with a sharpness that surprises me. Before I can worry about it,
before I need to wonder if I’ll get over the devastation that I’ll feel if you
reject me, you reassure me.
Your face lights with shy pleasure, and you say softly, “I’d love to.”
~ ~ ~ ~
I let myself be more preoccupied than is good for me the next day. The warmth
that suffuses me at the memory of our time together keeps returning, and I am
eager for the day to be over so that I can see you again. By the time I get
home, anticipation is running through my veins and I’m glad that there are
dinner preparations to give me something to focus on.
I’m cooking for you, tonight. I’ve known how to cook for years, and I’m actually
quite good at it, but I seldom bother because with just one person it’s so much
easier to go out. Or have something sent in. But the idea of preparing your
dinner pleases me, for a number of reasons, and when you arrive I am
methodically chopping herbs. Skills learned in Professor Snape’s classroom have
come in very handy in the kitchen, I must admit.
Your arrival heightens the anticipation already flowing through me, and I’d like
to pull you into my arms and kiss you, but I hold back. There will be time for
that later. For now I content myself with letting my eyes absorb every detail of
your appearance. You’re freshly showered and nicely dressed, obviously in
preparation for the dinner you thought we were going out to eat, but I’ve other
plans for you. You take in my casual clothing, the lit candles, and the sound of
light jazz filling the room. It’s clear that I’m intending for us to stay right
here, and your surprise is evident. I lead you back to the kitchen and grin in
genuine amusement as your eyes widen slightly; you accept the glass of wine I
hand you, but you don’t drink from it. Instead, you stand still, taking in the
fact that I’m preparing dinner, your amazement evident.
Cautiously, you sip at the glass in your hand, and then you ask carefully,
“You’re—you’re making dinner? For me?”
Your shy incredulity is unbelievably arousing. The fact that you’re so visibly
pleased at the realization that I’d go to the trouble for you is something I
hadn’t anticipated, and I’m glad that I’m standing in front of the counter, now,
because I’m already getting hard for you but I don’t want to rush you.
“Well, yes, I thought I’d give it a go. There was a nice recipe for flobberworm
stew in the Home section of the Prophet just today. It looked good, and I rather
thought you’d like it.” I’ve gone back to the chopping board, quickly and easily
assembling a crisp salad, and answer you with studied earnestness, my face bland
and innocent. It’s impossibly hot and humid outside. It has been so for days,
now, and I’ve chosen the menu in deference to the heat. There’s a perfectly
seasoned lobster salad in the refrigerator, a loaf of fresh bread, the salad,
chilled wine, a selection of cheeses and a fruit sorbet for later.
Much later.
You watch in silence for several minutes as I finish the salad, and then give a
breathless laugh. “Draco, listen…” Your voice is hesitant and it trails off
uncertainly.
I look up, still innocent. “What, you don’t like flobberworm?”
You’re next to me, now, placing your wine glass with deliberate care on the
counter. “No.” You don’t meet my eyes. “I mean, I’m sure whatever you’ve fixed
is wonderful, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about. It’s just that…”
You seem unaccountably nervous, and my heart clenches as a sudden dread arises,
a fear that you’re about to tell me that you’ll stay for dinner but nothing
else. That last night was a mistake, and that you don’t want to see me anymore.
Tense, also nervous, I slip into my familiar façade of cool distance, of
nonchalance, and make my voice carefully empty. “No? Then what?”
You hesitate, and my nerves stretch to the breaking point. “It’s just…whatever
dinner is…can it wait?” Your eyes have been fastened firmly on my shirtfront,
and when you finally raise them to meet mine they are nervous, but determined,
and already clouding with desire and need. “I’ve been thinking about you all
day.” Your tongue flickers out to moisten your lips and one hand comes up to
rest softly on my hip, the other reaching to wrap around the back of my neck.
“I—I want you.”
~ ~ ~ ~
We don’t make it to the bedroom.
Or at least, not right away.
We stumble through the doorway to the living room, your mouth fused to mine,
your hands ripping first at my clothing and then your own, impatient and
demanding, your body urgent and eager. Your impetuous demand is everything I’ve
been craving, and it has sent my own need spiraling sky-high. I want you, I need
you right now, and the bedroom is impossibly far away, and so I steer you to the
sofa and push you onto the soft, wide surface.
You need no urging, you sprawl back eagerly, pulling me down on top of you, your
arms wrapping around me and your legs spreading wide. I take full advantage of
what you offer, trailing my mouth down the broad, firm plane of your chest and
letting my fingers move down even further to find your opening, teasing at the
sensitive skin. You whimper, and the sound of it thrills me. I want more.
I move further down, and take you into my mouth, relishing the low, desperate
groan that is your response. You are hot, and hard, and gloriously sensitive,
and I spend long minutes teasing you, sipping and sucking lightly at your cock,
delighting in everything about you: your sweet curses and panting breath, your
rocking hips, your strong fingers, clutching at my shoulders.
I could keep doing this forever, I could keep you on the edge for eternity,
watching the play of passion and need wash over your face and drinking in the
sound of your soft pleas. You are exquisite.
But you are busy, as well, your hands moving to find me, your fingers firm and
sure, and the rhythm you establish is one I find myself mirroring with my mouth
on you. Just as I am thinking that the sensation can’t possibly get any
greater—that the world shouldn’t know such wicked pleasure—you come, and as I
swallow your release and find my own, it occurs to me not for the first time
that I am frightened of just how much I love you.
~ ~ ~ ~
We do, eventually, make it to the bedroom. I summon dinner from the kitchen to
us there in bed, and feed you lobster and wine and all the rest of it until you
are sated. And then you curl into my arms, as easily and naturally as if you’d
been doing it for years, and we sleep.
~ ~ ~ ~
I stop off at Pansy’s house after work the next day. I’m pushing my luck with
her as it is. I know she expected to hear from me well before this—probably the
day after the celebration—but I was otherwise occupied. If I don’t seek her out
today though, she will come find me, I’m sure, and I’d rather not give her any
more reason to ask questions than she will already have.
She’s in the kitchen of the new house she shares with Greg, the ingredients for
an apple pie scattered on the counter and a bowl for the pastry ready to one
side. Her gaze narrows shrewdly as I saunter into the room, and her hands come
to rest on her hips briefly before moving to the flour and measuring scoop.
“Well?”
“Well, what?” I snitch a piece of apple from the supply she’s already got peeled
and sliced for the pie.
“Well, how was it? How is…everyone?”
I shrug. “Shockingly the same. Weasley is still unbelievably annoying.
Dumbledore is still hiding his brilliance behind that ‘doddering old man’
routine, and Justin Finch-Fletchley is still the most boring creature on the
face of the earth.”
Pansy lets a long moment of silence go by. Finally, “And Potter?”
Harry… “Potter is…” Everything I want and more than I dare hope
for…clever, interesting, funny, passionate, sensitive, beautifully uninhibited
in bed and gorgeously shy out of it. Despite the ready list of ways my brain
has supplied to finish the sentence, I’m strangely loathe to voice them aloud. I
shrug again. “Potter is still Potter.”
“You left with him.” It is not a question.
I reach for another apple slice and avoid Pansy’s eyes. “I did, yes.”
Pansy adds ice water to the ingredients in the bowl and deftly mixes the pastry
before dumping it onto the floured board. “And so…have you worked him out of
your system, then?” She picks up the rolling pin and brandishes it in my
direction before using it on the piecrust. “Did you get over him?”
I consider her for a moment and then shoot her a wicked grin. “Oh, yes…I most
certainly did get over him.”
She pauses, her eyes narrowing again, and hefts the rolling pin suggestively.
“Don’t play games with me, Draco. You’ve been hooked on him since we were kids,
to the point where you could never really even look at anyone else, and
now you’ve finally had what you’ve always wanted. So, tell me…was he worth all
that time? All that agony? Or was he a disappointment?”
I could lie to Pansy, but there’s no real point. “I saw him again last night.”
It’s as close as I’m willing to come right now to telling her what I feel, but
she’s a bright girl; it’s enough. I don’t mention the full day we spent together
after that first night. Pansy would take that and just run with it, and I’m not
sure enough of anything right now to leave myself that open. Even to her. As it
is, the little I’ve told her is plenty.
At my words, her eyes flash up and bore straight into me. “You did? Really?” Her
gaze holds mine, and then she turns back to her pastry board and lifts the
bottom shell of the piecrust carefully into the waiting plate. “Where did you
take him?” She always asks me that—she always says she can tell exactly how I
feel about a current lover by the places I take them.
And I’ve laughed at that in the past, because I’ve always felt exactly the same
about my lovers before this, regardless of where I choose to take them, but as I
open my mouth to answer her, I suddenly realize why she asks. She’s been waiting
to hear about someone I’d take to my home, someone that means enough to me to
share an actual part of myself with. Now that I understand this, I’m even more
reluctant to tell her where I’ve taken Harry. She knows how I feel about him,
and if she knows that he’s broken through that barrier already, she’ll be
relentless in her quest to assure herself that I’m not setting myself up for a
devastating fall. I’m worried enough about that, myself. I don’t need her
mother-hen routine on top of it. I reach for another apple slice. She slaps at
my wrist but I evade her and pop the fruit into my mouth before answering.
“Someplace very nice and cozy. And I’m meeting him there in just a bit, so I’ll
be off shortly.”
“Again?” She pauses, cinnamon stick in one hand, grater in the other, and
considers me carefully. “You were with him the night of the celebration and then
last night, and you’re seeing him again tonight? Draco, that’s three of the last
four nights.” Her message is quite clear; it’s definitely not my usual style to
seen someone so frequently. Oh, and all day after the first night as well…
When I don’t respond, she switches tactics, but is no less intense. “And
just what does he want out of all this?” Despite my deep need for
privacy, a surge of strong affection for Pansy rises; she absolutely has my
welfare at heart—she is always my protector.
But that particular question is a very tender one, because I don’t really know.
I know what I hope he wants, but as far as knowing for sure goes, well, it
hasn’t exactly come up in casual conversation. Gee, Harry, I’m glad you’re
interested in another shag; you wouldn’t, by any chance, want to make a lifelong
commitment based on two nights, would you? I push that thought away and
sneak my fingers close to the mound of apple slices she’s piled into the pastry
shell, filching one last piece before she covers it with the top crust.
“My incredible body.” My voice is light. I look up in time to see a frown
pulling her brows together.
“Bring him by later. For pie and coffee.” Her suggestion is casual. Too casual.
I grin at her. “Not on your life. You’ll scare him.”
She crimps the edges of the piecrust together with practiced ease. “Nonsense.
I’ll be on my very best behavior. I just want to find out what fabulous resort
you’re taking him to, so that I can harass Greg into taking me there.”
I hesitate, but only for a moment. She’s bound to find out eventually. I can
hear Greg coming into the house, and I decide that the timing couldn’t be more
perfect. “Actually,” I keep my voice light, “we’ve been at my flat.”
Her head snaps up and her eyes fly to meet mine; they are wide with
comprehension and astonishment and they see far too much in my own. She is just
opening her mouth to speak when Greg joins us in the kitchen, greeting me with a
grin and his wife with a hug. Then his eyes move over the counter and his smile
broadens. “Apple pie? Excellent.” He sweeps Pansy into his arms with an
extravagant swirl and kisses her thoroughly. By the time he releases her, she is
flushed and laughing, and I make my escape.
~ ~ ~ ~
“You haven’t been here for dinner in ages, Draco. How about tomorrow night? You
can bring a date.” Pansy’s voice is easy and encouraging, and if I hadn’t been
ducking her for over three weeks, now, I’d really believe that the only thing on
her mind is making sure I get my fill of her amazing coq au vin. As it is, I’m
having a harder and harder time finding excuses to say no.
“Hmmm. Tomorrow’s not good.”
“Busy? Seeing Potter again?”
“Yes, actually.”
I’m noncommittal and vague, and I can tell by the tightening of her mouth that
her patience with my avoidance is wearing thin.
Pansy is my self-appointed human barometer for other people’s motives. I’m quite
aware of them on my own, and even if I weren’t they would eventually surface
anyway, but Pansy can cut to the heart of someone’s intentions where I’m
concerned faster than a niffler finds gold. She is an excellent judge of
character, and although she’s never been anything but welcoming and cordial to
my past lovers, she has also never once hesitated to tell me exactly what she
thinks of them the next time she catches me alone. After only the briefest of
meetings, she has unerringly pegged gold diggers, social climbers, selfish
users, and seemingly sweet partners whose true inclinations tend with
single-minded determination towards things I like to avoid, like possessiveness
and permanence.
I have introduced her to nearly every lover I’ve ever had, easily and willingly,
and the fact that I’m balking so much now is making her very concerned. For the
first few weeks I used the line that she didn’t need to meet Harry, because she
already knows him, but she’s increasingly insistent that she wants to “catch up”
with what he’s been doing lately. What that really translates into is the fact
that she wants to run her calculating little eye over him the way she’s done
with the others. And the more she presses, the more resistant I am to bringing
him by.
“Well, you could bring him to dinner, you know. I do actually know how to be
nice to Gryffindors.”
Greg sniggers, and she shoots him a quelling look. He grins unrepentantly, but
keeps quiet.
Pansy waits a beat and tries again. “You could just stop by for a quick cup of
tea, you know…I’ll make baklava.”
I hesitate at that, truly tempted; Pansy’s baklava is sweet and light and melts
on the tongue, and she uses an orange-infused honey that makes it truly
decadent. “Maybe.”
“Well, let me know. It doesn’t have to be a whole evening. And I really would be
interested to see how Potter’s doing these days.” Her tone is light, almost
unconcerned, as though it doesn’t really matter to her one way or the other.
That should have been my warning, really.
~ ~ ~ ~
I push open the door to my flat, fully expecting to hear you rummaging around in
the kitchen, or maybe—if I’m lucky—the bedroom. I’m late coming from work, as I
thought I’d be, but you’d promised to be there waiting for me, and that’s the
only thing that’s gotten me through the afternoon.
It’s not until I’ve tossed my wand on the table and loosened my tie that I
realize that Pansy is here, as well.
My last conversation with her comes crashing back, and cursing colorfully under
my breath I move quickly to the kitchen door, listening carefully. I’m just in
time to hear Pansy say clearly, “Lots of people think it’s quite the status
symbol to be seen with Draco. They use him, you know? It’s partly why he doesn’t
stay with anyone; he’s not interested in being an accessory. Of course, no one
really has ever held his interest for very long, either…Except you, of course.”
Fuck, Pansy…why did you have to tell him that?
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call a month ‘very long’.” Your voice is subdued,
doubtful, and Pansy bursts into laughter at your answer.
“A month? Is that how long you think you’ve been holding Draco’s attention,
Potter?”
“Well, just about. I mean, I know it’s not been quite that…” You’re defensive
now, but Pansy’s not listening to you anymore, she’s giggling like an idiot.
“You think he’s been interested in you for a month--” I can tell by the warmth
of her voice and the sound of her genuine amusement that whatever has transpired
between you two has made her relieved and reassured and everything she needs to
be.
I, on the other hand, have not heard your conversation, and I am not
reassured and I’m cursing her to hell and back for interfering. I push the door
open and my voice makes it extremely clear that I’m not especially pleased to
see her. “Why, Pansy, darling, I’d think Harry would have a reasonably good idea
of how long he and I have been seeing each other, wouldn’t you?”
She doesn’t even bat an eye—if anything, her grin broadens when she sees me.
“Hello, Draco, dear. I’ve just stopped by to say hi--to Harry.” The fact that
she uses your first name is not lost on me; it’s her way of telling me that she
isn’t worried about your motives anymore. While part of me is more relieved
about that than I’d ever admit to her, a bigger part of me is still irritated
that she’s obviously upset you.
“Well, you’ve said your hellos, so take yourself off home now, there’s a good
girl.”
“Yes, Draco, I’m leaving, now. And by the way, I understand. And it’s okay, you
know. I’m actually very happy about it.”
Her genuine relief at having her concerns reassured is hard to dismiss, and I’m
acutely aware that there are few people in the world who love me the way Pansy
does. I’m not fool enough to be unappreciative, and my voice softens enough to
let her know that. “Well, I’ll just sleep so much better tonight knowing I’ve
made you happy, Panse. Now run along, and be sure and give Greg my condolences
once again.”
~ ~ ~ ~
You come back into the kitchen after seeing Pansy out and probe gently about the
purpose of her visit. I’m putting you off with what are truthful if deliberately
vague statements when you finally visibly take your courage in both hands and
ask if what Pansy meant was that I’d stopped being interested in you but just
hadn’t told you that yet.
Your complete lack of guile and your absolute humility take me aback and I can
do nothing but offer you the truth. “Harry, what Pansy knows is that I’ve been
interested in you for…” I hesitate at the point of telling you just how long
I’ve wanted you—still reluctant to leave myself so unprotected emotionally where
you’re concerned. “Somewhat longer than a month. And she can be a bit
protective, so I’m sure she wanted to reassure herself that you weren’t just
marking time, and having your wicked way with me before tossing me carelessly to
one side.” You look at me, wonder in your eyes, and I take a deep breath and
continue. Pansy has had her reassurance, but this is an opportunity for me to
hear directly from you, and I’m not passing it by. Your eyes are alight with
something I’m afraid to name, but it gives me the encouragement I need to ask
point blank, “You’re not planning on doing that, are you, Harry?”
Your eyes never leave mine, and the light in them warms me, and when you shake
your head ‘no’ relief hits me with such force that I’m caught off-guard.
I lean forward and catch your bottom lip between my teeth and nibble it gently.
“I didn’t think so.” Unable to resist, I kiss you full on the mouth, my caress
insistent and increasingly passionate, and then I pull back and give you
everything I dare.
“And I’m not planning on doing that to you, either, Harry.”
The look on your face so closely mirrors what is in my heart that I am
lightheaded. I force my voice to be steady and my arms tighten around you. “So,
now that we’ve got that all straightened out, may I have you instead of dinner?”
~ ~ ~ ~
Later, we make our way back to the kitchen for the dinner we abandoned hours
ago. The atmosphere between us has changed, our lovemaking earlier unlike any we
have shared thus far. Oh, it is passionate, and sweet, and totally
uninhibited—all the things I have come to count on with you—but it is also
different, somehow. More grounded.
It is as though our acknowledgment that what is between us is not something
trivial and transient has somehow lent a depth—an anchor—to the physical
component that wasn’t there before.
I watch you move around my kitchen, easily, comfortably, as though it is your
kitchen, and I realize that this is what I really want. I want for you to feel
as though your home is here, that you belong with me. I remember Pansy’s
constant questions about where I would take past lovers, and I smile to myself
at the idea of how she must have reacted when she found you here earlier. Every
protective instinct of hers must have come out full strength, and the fact that
she was so happy when she left says a lot for what happened between the two of
you.
Impulsively, I pull you into my arms, interrupting you as you divide the waiting
food between the two plates. You come willingly to me, a smile on your face. I
pull the serving spoon out of your hands and drop it on the counter and kiss you
passionately before pulling away.
“All right?” My question is soft, and ostensibly vague, but you still
immediately in my arms, your eyes meeting mine with steady solemnity.
You pause deliberately before answering, both hands coming to cradle my face
before you do, and your words strengthen my soul.
“Never better.” Your eyes hold mine, relentlessly honest. “And...and you?”
I answer straight from the heart. “The same, Harry. Never better.”
You initiate the kiss this time, and it is at once sweetly comforting and
outrageously arousing.
When we part, my head is spinning, and my heart is full. “Harry?”
“Mmmmm….” Your response is distracted, at best, your mouth moving down the side
of my neck.
“Would you mind if I invited Pansy and Greg to have dinner here with us tomorrow
night? I think she’d like that.”
~ fin
Feedback appreciated,
as always…
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