Games

1

"Fuck."

Draco heaved a long sigh as he stared at the ceiling of his dorm. It was always just a little too cold in the Slytherin dorms for his taste, and this year it seemed to be especially so. Then again, all of Hogwarts had lost it's appeal this year. Well, all except for one thing (one person, specifically), but he'd never admit that out loud.

It was late. He knew he should be going to the room of requirement to work on his task, but he had so little motivation to move. Laying there all night, in his cozy bed with his heat-charmed blankets, sounded far more appealing. He briefly wondered if he knew what he was doing right now.

Potter had seemed to know his exact location at all times throughout the whole year. Draco was sure Potter thought he was being sneaky, but he'd noticed how closely Potter had been watching him. Noticed how, somehow, despite all the precautions he'd taken to not get caught, Potter always seemed to appear wherever he was. Always watching, a certain intensity in his gaze that Draco could feel raking over his body, even if he couldn't see Potter.

He knew.

Potter knew Draco was up to something. Draco had concluded long ago that he didn't know any details, but it had still made him nervous. The first month of Potter following him around, watching him like a hawk, had Draco on edge nearly all hours of the day. Once he had figured out that Potter didn't actually know what he was assigned to do, his antics only served to annoy Draco. Whenever he would catch Potter lurking, watching, whatever he was doing, he was sure to throw a nasty scowl his way, but he kept his distance.

Now, though, Draco had lost his ability to care. Potter didn't know shit, and Draco wasn't sure he'd care even if he did know. The weight of his task, the blood that would surely stain his hands if he were to succeed, was breaking him down. And through all Potter's posturing and acting as though he hated him, Draco had noticed something in those intense glares.

Worry.

He was certain it was there. Potter had practically been staring at him all year. He tried hard to hide it, Draco could tell, but he saw the concern there. He'd never admit it, but it made his frigid heart a little warmer. Moaning Myrtle had never been very good company, and Draco had cut off most of his other friends by this point. Knowing that somehow, for some reason, in some way, Potter cared about him? It made it a little easier to deal with the pain.

It was also fucking hilarious.

Who knew? Saint Potter, saviour of wizard-kind, cared about his death-eater arch-enemy of six years. How very true to his stupid, self-sacrificial nature. And so, Draco had decided to make what little light he could of his situation. Because there really wasn't much he had left to look forward to in his life, and messing with Potter had always given him a special kind of satisfaction.

Whenever he would catch Potter staring at him he made an effort to do something ridiculous, just subtle enough that only Potter would notice. Whether it be making a strange gesture or face, or casting subtle charms and jinxes designed specifically to confuse him, he made sure Potter was the only one to see it. When he would catch him following him he'd do his best to walk him in circles or to strange places. Sometimes he'd even go out specifically to fuck with him. He'd wait until Potter caught onto him (which he always did, without fail) and then do something strange or make weird things happen around him. Potter's reactions were always amazing. He'd even overheard more than one conversation between Potter and his friends of the weird things he had "caught" Draco doing. His friends seemed to think Potter had lost his marbles. It took much concentration not to burst out laughing whenever he thought of Potter's crazed, frustrated ravings to his unamused friends.