His Ravenclaw (Draco Malfoy)

drunk thoughts

For a moment, you can't remember where you are. Light, white spots are dancing behind your eyelids. Somehow, you've stumbled out of the Room of Requirement and you're in a dark hallway of the castle. You tear through another doorway, seeking refuge in the library.

Your head is reeling. You might just be able to doze off in the library, and then no one will know. You stagger between rows and rows of tall, intimidating bookcases, and then sink into a chair in a far corner of the room. The library is dim, lit by small, incandescent bulbs, making the room feel dingy and dark.

You're not alone.

"Oh, hello," you say, nodding to the tall figure in front of you. "Ferret Draco. I mean Malfoy. Ferret boy. What?"

He blinks. "Are you drunk?"

"What is this, Malfoy?" You say, tapping your fingers absently against your leg. "What type of coincidence is this? This must be the third time we've met during a party. Must be that thing. What's it called? You know? When people meet together..." You stop talking abruptly. If your thoughts were working properly, you would've felt horrified. But you feel nothing, and it feels blissful. 

"I don't believe in fate, if that's what you're talking about." He sits down on the ground beside your chair, leaning his head against the wall. "This is... highly unusual for you. To get drunk during a party."

You both fall quiet. From the corner of your eye, you can see him fiddling with the collar of his suit, his fingers twitching slightly. But from nerves or from anger, you can't tell. Your head is too muddled and clouded for you to think much. And yet, you can understand that he is here. He is here in the library with you, while the Firewhiskey burns in the back of your throat and threatens you to do something, something stupid. 

"Where did you learn to dance so well?" You ask, shattering the silence like glass.

He doesn't respond. After several long seconds, you vaguely wonder if he's ignoring you, if conversation is pointless, but somehow, you don't care.

Finally, he says, "My mother made me take lessons when I was younger."

"Did you enjoy it?" Your fingers hum against the worn cloth of the armrest on the chair. 

"No."

"Why not?"

He takes another long moment before responding. "Because I had to dance. It wasn't like the others. I learned to play piano and ice-skate. But I did those myself. I never had any lessons for those." He speaks slowly, as through trying to find the right words for it. "I chose them."

"You can ice-skate?" Your brain becomes momentarily surprised by the Malfoy on ice-shakes image that clouds your subconscious. 

"Please, Ollivander. Don't tell me you can't ice-skate?" He scoffs. "I suspect it's the effect of hanging around with so many blood-traitors. Makes you slow in the brain." He cocks his head at you, as though waiting for your reaction. But you feel oddly calm, something strange in your mind that blocks the fiery burn you'd normally feel. 

"I'd like to learn how to ice-skate," you say quietly. That shuts him up.

"You'd better get to bed, Ollivander." Draco says as he stands up. 

He's standing so close to you. So close. It feels familiar.

"What, are you just going to sit there?" He says.

You feel nothing but hatred. Right?

You reach out your hand and touch the cuff of his suit, your fingers just barely brushing against his wrist. His skin is softer than you expected, his cold hand feeling like smooth ice.

He stiffens at your touch and you hear a sharp intake of breath. Your fingers are still resting, ever so slightly, against his wrist. But he doesn't push them off, doesn't whip his hand out of your reach. All of a sudden, everything feels too different, too intimate. 

Then he takes a firm grasp of your hand. His fingers begin to delicately trace your palm, up across your arm, his rings grazing your skin. Your stomach is fluttering, and chills are vibrating up your spine like a winter's breeze. His touch is soft, and yet it's firm, his fingers carving intricate patterns as they trace up your skin. 

His thumb reaches your bare shoulder. He pauses for a moment, then begins lining up to your collarbone. You keep your gaze on the ground, willing yourself not to look at his face because if you did, you would've pushed him off you, slammed his hand away from your skin. But it feels so different, so alluring, and you tell yourself to keep staring at his black dress shoes as his fingers graze your neck. So close.

His touch.

Him.

His other hand rests forward on the chair between your legs, the sides of his fingers brushing against your thighs. Another familiar feeling, but it feels different without the absence of pain you'd felt when he had touched you in the same place before. Now, all you can feel are the intense chills across your skin and your heartbeat thudding within your chest. 

He's leaning forward and that same magnetic pull draws you closer. His lips just barely touch against your neck and then he moves higher, so that they're hovering right above your lips. His lips are so close to yours, you can hear his shaky breathing.

Just a little closer.

"No." His voice comes out hoarse as he pulls away.

You close your eyes as his hands retract away from you. "No?"

"You're drunk." He's stepping away from you now, as though to keep as much distance from you as possible.

"It's my choice." You say quietly.

"You'd regret it in the morning." He says. He won't look at you but you can see him now; his slightly parted lips, his furrowed brows, the loose strands of platinum blonde hair hanging over his forehead. 

"Would you?"

There's a pause. Then-

"Yes."