It's Not A Love Potion (Drarry)

Chapter 8

Yesterday had been one of the best days of Draco's life.

He hadn't known that he could ever feel as alive as he had with Potter touching him and kissing him and wearing his clothes. It was probably a good thing Pansy was there because otherwise he would have not stopped bringing Potter off over and over again. Merlin, that boy could kiss.

Of course, without Pansy there none of it would have happened in the first place. Draco was unspeakably glad that she had never, not in seven years of their friendship, valued his privacy.

But that was the problem; once Pansy had left, the kissing and touching and stopped completely, like it was all just an act. Of course, that's what is was, but for a while it seemed that Draco's mind had managed to convince itself that it was real, that he and Potter were happy, together.

In hindsight, Draco was disgusted with himself.

Not only had he been sickeningly relaxed with someone – enough to let them joke with him and caress him like a lover – but that person was Potter. Harry fucking Potter. It was repulsive the way Draco had blindly followed any suggestion that Potter had made, the way that he'd melted in Potter's embrace.

It was even worse that it was all he could think about.

That night he had lay in his bed, staring up at the canopy and craving Potter like he never had before and hating himself for it. Maybe the potion matured with time, or with extended contact, because this was deeper than it ever had been. Even that weekend when Potter had abandoned him totally; yes, that had been terrible, it had felt like his life was being torn away from him, but this was different. This time the potion had extended into his soul.

Fucking Zabini. Fucking Snape for not being able to fix him. And fucking Potter for being so infuriatingly desirable.

At least it was a Sunday, so Draco could hide away in the common room and not have to see Potter in class or at mealtimes. Of course, Draco still had to eat, but his Potter-watching had become so frequent that he knew just when (and even what) Potter preferred to eat, could predict who he would sit next to, and could determine with precision what mood Potter was in simply by the way he walked to the Gryffindor table.

And yet, horribly, Draco still wanted to find out more.

What was wrong with him? Surely if he tried hard enough, he could overcome the influence of the potion. Was he just so weak-willed that he would surrender to anything bestowed upon him? If the Dark Lord turned up at the Hogwarts gates, would Draco simply walk up to him and sign his life over like an idiot?

Of course not. Draco was better than that. He could resist his father's urgings to follow a madman, and he could resist his own brain's urgings to think about Potter. It was only for two more weeks. That was nothing.

And so Draco found himself in the common room, pretending to care about other people and determinedly not thinking about a certain Gryffindor. And if, when it became closer and closer to evening, he checked the clock every five minutes, then so what? He was simply a punctual person, that's all. It was just impolite to leave someone waiting when you had made arrangements with them.

And, fine, maybe he did head up to the seventh floor right after dinner. But he ate late on Sundays and it would look suspicious if he'd gone to the common room and left again straight afterwards and, really, forty-five minutes wasn't that early at all.

Potter wasn't there when Draco pushed open the door and peered in. Good. That was good. It meant that Draco could prepare himself. Try to stifle the rapidly rising anticipation. He would not be beaten by a stupid bloody potion.