Temptation on the Warfront

12

Heat, fury, the image of colourful, degrading boxers and pointless, insulting insignias stamped across muggle shirts — everything swirls into an endless knot of  Potter Potter Potter.

And Draco has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, because somehow the centre of his life has become Potter — or maybe that's just because right now, Potter is all Draco can see, his eyes, moss green in the darkness, wide and staring, locked onto Draco as though he's all Potter can see too.

And while Draco has every intention of strangling the Boy Who Lived and incinerating the bag of clothing, in the next second everything changes. Potter's face softens, his breath becomes tantalising, and Draco can barely breathe — can't focus on anything other than the dizzying wave of Potter's scent, and somewhere within it Draco can smell faint traces of cookie dough. Draco swallows away the dryness in his throat, but it won't work, he's parched for something he's never known, something Potter seems to be thirsting for too.

Potter lets out this shaky puff of air, tickling the hair hanging into Draco's glare, and licks his lips — and this is all wrong — Draco's meant to be enraged, not mesmerised — and when he looks back into Potter's eyes, they are gazing at Draco with something threateningly similar to want.

This isn't right, Draco must be imagining it, Potter can't want to be this close to him, can't want what Draco swears he sees — this is impossible — everything's impossible — even more so because in reaction, Draco realises he wants Potter too. He wants to close the gap between them, cross the distance to the lips which look as dry as Draco's feel — and Draco doesn't know what's wrong with him, what's happening to him. Potter must be fucking with his brain. Because this — this overwhelming response to Potter's warmth, to the feeling of his solid chest beneath Draco's fisted hands — this just isn't normal.

This is Harry Potter, and it's bloody insane.

"You're bloody insane," Draco whispers, his voice hoarse and scratchy, and he doesn't know if he's telling Potter, or himself. He forces his fingers to uncurl from Potter's jumper, forces his feet to jump backwards as though burned. But even as the space between them grows, the only burning Draco can feel is on his face, from the tingling Potter's breath has left behind.

Draco heaves, stiffens his arms by his side, but the tremors don't stop, his heart feels like it's alive — like it's trying to break out of his ribcage — thrumming with energy and excitement and fear.

And when Draco sees that Potter's face has erased any hint of emotion, deadpanned into an indifferent mask, that fear increases, becomes a palpable flame in his body.

Potter opens his mouth, probably to tell Draco that he's insane too, but then Granger's concerned voice slips from within the tent — "Harry?"

Potter's face falls in disappointment, just for a moment, as though he's just realised something important, and as he pulls his intense stare away from Draco, his eyes are full of unvoiced words.

Potter sends him one last searching look, before disappearing back into the tent.

Harry comes face to face with Hermione's startled expression, and he has to shove a hand through his hair to calm his overactive nerves, make sure he doesn't look as flustered as he feels.

"Are you okay?" She asks, narrowing her eyes at the tent exit, "I heard him shouting, and I thought you were going to — you know — fight. But then everything just went quiet." Hermione talks softly, and Harry understands why when he hears Ron groan in his sleep. She's looking at Harry as though she expects an answer, and it had better be a good one, but Harry's thoughts are too jumbled, his heart is beating too erratically in his chest for him to form a coherent response.