Draco Malfoy x Reader One Shots

Fire

Draco Malfoy was ice. His skin was pale, his features were sharp, and his words were cold. He bit out insults and harsh truths like it was his role in life to do so, and his cool expression would tell you that he thought nothing of it. He was harsh, unforgiving. Ice.

But when you met up with him, in free hours between classes or after dark, in the room of requirements or in the astronomy tower, there was a heat that thawed his cold apathy, a burning type of heat when his fingers dragged through your hair or over your skin, intense. And then he was fire. He was untamed and untamable, unquenchable, and it left you without breath.

But no matter what type of seizing extreme he was, Draco Malfoy was unattainable. Yours only as long as the flames were alight or the ice was mind numbing, encompassing. And when it had struck you that that wasn't enough, that he was an unpredictable constant you desired in more ways than you had both settled upon, Draco Malfoy was only ice.

No longer did you meet in secret, spilling nonsense until there was nothing left, until you were spent.

It hurt, and you didn't want to admit it to yourself, let alone Draco. And so, you did the only thing you felt you could do to bring back fire: you poured gasoline.

~ ~ ~ ~

Harry Potter wasn't fire, and he certainly wasn't ice. He was a middle ground, the path for people next door and swooning wannabes. He was nice, always, and when he lost his temper, it was only ever with a childish flare of impatience.

But even in his mundane simplicity, he was adored, limelighted. And above all, he made Draco ice in a way scarce little else did.

You could use that.

Those were the thoughts running through your mind as you sat in Potions, perched at the end of a Slytherin table only feet from Draco Malfoy, staring instead at the scruffy haired straightforwardness known as 'The Boy Who Lived'.

He was sat beside his far from well-off friend, the second youngest member of the Weasley carrot patch, sloppily taking down notes as Snape drawled on.

His glasses sat precariously on the edge of his nose, and his tongue stuck out of his mouth in a picture of utmost sophistication, and you really had to question just where he had been when you looked at the state of his robes. Honestly - was he seventeen or seven? Grass stains galore, he was decidedly far from your type, but that wasn't of importance.

Harry Potter was an unwitting pawn in a game of sexual politics, and you could almost feel bad for the young wizard, until you felt the stare, cold and familiar, the type that made a shiver slide down your spine, a catalyst of thrill, and then your pity was gone.

You wanted fire, and you weren't afraid of doing what you had to do to get it.

So you ignored the ice, biting back a smirk as you knew even without turning that Draco was watching you look at Potter, and focused on seeming as if you were checking out the rumpled mess of Gryffindor.

And when you had to get up, had to get the supplies for your Amortentia potion, you rose from the table only after Potter had done the same, stalking past Draco with your shoulder brushing his enemy's.

And as you collected the supplies alongside the Boy Who Lived, you let slip compliments on how well he'd do, on how well he looked - and, just loudly enough, that you thought you knew what aroma yours would carry. And in your situation, finger tips brushing Harry Potter's as you 'accidentally' reached for rose thorns at the same time, it was clear just what you meant.

Ice still prickled the back of your neck, but you hadn't quite realized how close it was until Draco was biting out cold words in the way he manage so effortlessly.