𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒?

Part III

Part 3: Day After 

You come across impure
I didn't mean it
You're goddamn immature
I didn't mean it
You act so insecure
I didn't mean it
You hate me now I'm sure
I didn't mean it

"Slackerbitch", Placebo

They were tiredly lying on the bed. Harry opened his eyes and began to look around lazily, blinking at the early morning sun, which streamed from a window, playing shadows of light on Draco's back.  Then his eyes fell on Draco, who was restless in his sleep. 

Harry sighed and reached the packet of Marlboro abandoned on the bedside table. When he moved, his arm brushed Draco's skin. Harry stood still for a while, fearing of having woken the blond up, but when nothing happened, he fished a cigarette and lightened it, taking a deep drag of the smoke.

Harry wasn't used to this addiction, mainly because he didn't usually see the appeal of smoking, but there was nothing he couldn't do if he wanted to, and now he wanted to smoke.

Well, actually this was his addiction: obtaining what he wished.

And this isn't easy to reach as a packet of cigarettes... he pondered, smirking and thinking about his last conquest, his last victory. Harry analysed the perfect shape of the fair-haired man at his side.

Draco was beautiful and this was just a fact. Not only handsome, nor simply pretty, but just beautiful, like one of the angel painted on the most famous chapels in the world.

And having touched this perfection - that Harry had secretly admired, since the times of Hogwarts - having put his skilled fingers of Seeker on that living masterpiece, well, this really gave a special taste to the black-haired wizard victory.

Don't forget his hate... Harry considered smirking again, conscious that a large part of his happiness was given by having cut through Draco's thick shield of arrogance and self-control.

Now Harry felt a lazy sense of satiety, just like when, after a three hours Quidditch match against the Slytherin team, he finally closed his tired fingers around the little golden ball he had longed for since the very beginning of the game.

Have I *longed* for Malfoy? The Harry wondered getting up from the bed and putting on his pants and his trousers.

He shook his head.

No way. I just wanted to beat him. The Quidditch pitch or a bed, it doesn't matter as long as there is a challenge between us, Harry considered, amused. I was the best in Quidditch. I've been the best *tonight*, he concluded, crushing the butt of his cigarette in the ashtray.

Harry kept on dressing absently, still replaying the events of the last night in his head, still congratulating with his proud inner self for having perfectly repaid seven years of Malfoy's taunting, and he didn't notice a pair of grey eyes looking at him interrogatively.

"Harry," a sleepy smooth voice said.

He turned and looked coldly at Draco, who blinked, puzzled.

Harry smiled reading the confusion on the blonde-haired man face.

"Good Morning Malfoy. Did you sleep well?" he asked sarcastically while Draco blinked again, as trying to wake up.