entanglements | d.m.

19.thistimearound

October '98 | H E R

What Devyn walks into the night before the big first Quidditch match against Hufflepuff is stilling her in her tracks.

Malfoy is positioned at the edge of his bed, his broom hovering before him in height as he polishes the handle with a rag. A kit lies open to his right.

Clad in only a pair of black boxer briefs, Devyn has long given up on the shirt-rule she set very early on.

She breaks out of her stupor the second his gaze cuts to her, briskly closing the door before walking to her side. "Didn't your coach tell you to go to sleep?"

"Corner can suck my ass."

"He might, if you ask nicely." Disposing her bag on the desk chair, Devyn turns slowly, smiling sweetly. "Anything to get the star Seeker all relaxed for the big game."

"You're funny," he deadpans. Or does he mean it?

"I owe that to arrogant men in my life," she replies either way, not able to help herself for the dig. "And a sharp-tongued mother."

He doesn't seem to care. Or notice. Seriously, it's close to when he usually goes to bed and he looks nowhere near tired. Devyn could leave it at that and go back to her routine of clearing the room as quickly as possible-she really should-but something keeps her rooted on the spot.

Maybe it's that he looks to yummy to walk away from or the strange feeling of how domestic this moment is and she doesn't want to end it yet.

She does, however, turn to face the desk, switching books for the schedule on Monday. Because it's Friday and her brain is fried, apparently. "So you're just gonna stay up all night brushing each bristle of your cute little sweeping broom."

"This is the Doom," he corrects matter-of-factly. "It goes so fast that if you don't have control-which is very easy to lose-it'll lead to your death."

Her brows climb high. Death? "Really?"

"No, but I'd like to make that happen one day." He waves his open palm in the air as though envisioning a headline. "'The Doom by Draco Malfoy'."

"No, that's the title to your memoir."

He is rolling his eyes, a hundred percent. "This is the Thunderclap," he supplies. "A strong follower of the Firebolt and goes fast enough to outrun your problems."

The joke is right there, and Devyn doesn't take it. Doesn't take anything from him.

Nope, she clamps her mouth shut and walks over to her closet, staring at her humble collection of boring jeans and boring shirts and, oh, boring skirts and dresses in search for a good costume for the Halloween party tomorrow night. Meanwhile, Malfoy tells her about actually putting a repellent oil on the bristles to prevent them from getting soaked.

She knows all about it already, because they've been here already, only three years back lying under trees or lounging in a deserted corridor, but she lets him talk anyway.

No one ask why!

When creativity doesn't strike her, she pulls a thick sweater out because it's cold outside and the longer she can prevent using a warming spell she'll have to reapply every five minutes, the more she can enjoy herself on nights outside with Tarq.

In a swift move, she takes her current jersey style off. The tank top beneath gives her enough comfort but as she throws the sweater into the hamper, she catches a pair of silver smoldering eyes glued to every bit of exposed skin. It's just arms, upper chest, but he doesn't waste a second.