𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐇𝐒𝐈𝐀| ✔︎

𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄|𝐌𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐌𝐎𝐔𝐑

DRACO LEANS DOWN TO KISS HIM.

As usual, it's bright outside. They were laying on the grass with their bodies intertwined; Harry on the bottom and Draco on the top. The sun shines through Draco's hair, illuminating the white-blond colour and his intense gaze. His skin was pale like porcelain and glassy with the light, making him look almost angelic. His grey eyes seem to be shining with both love and lust as Harry looks deep into them. They are an abyss of silver, shades of metallic and mercury in which it's almost unreal. By now, Draco isn't just staring at him — but looking at him zealously as if he withholds all the answers to the universe. All Harry can do is smile like an idiot.

"Vous tu es beau," he murmurs as he kisses him. "magnifique," he presses another kiss on his forehead and under his ear."mien," Draco trails away, now nosing at the base of his neck to form a love bite. It takes Harry a moment to figure out that Draco is speaking French, which is now doing odd things to his stomach. He's never heard him speak such a beautiful and distinctive language.

"Draco —"

But he silences Harry by closing the gap between them once again; catching him off-guard. But it's not as if he's complaining.

"Shh," he whispers almost inaudibly, pulling away ever so slightly. Harry frowns and looks up at him. Draco's hot breath is on his cheeks and as he whispers again. "don't talk, just feel."

And again he's leaning back down to kiss him, but Harry meets him halfway. His nose bumps against Draco's in effort to find his mouth as his eyes are still closed. Harry's hands found Draco's shoulders; loving the way the felt under his fingertips and sighing in content as Draco rested his hands on Harry's hips. There was a fire in Harry's chest, and he's never wanted to do something more than to kiss his former enemy.

"Je t'aime." Draco says, almost as if he's forbidden to say the words in the English language. His face reddens and Harry's heart swells whilst he runs his fingers through the silky blonde hair. He continues kissing down Harry's body, and without further instruction; Harry complies. He arches his neck and stares at the sky, just letting himself feel.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Someone is poking at his arm.

Ouch.

They're not doing it very gently.

Ouch!

Why won't they stop?

Harry stirs. He rubs his arm as if it had been impaled. He curses and his eyes shoot open —only to make direct contact with Ron Weasley. His red hair is messily in front of his face like a curtain and he's clad in a maroon knit sweater with his initials along with pajama bottoms and bunny slippers. He is holding open the crimson Gryffindor drapes of Harry's four poster bed and in his other hand is a half eaten biscuit. There are crumbs on the corners of his mouth that almost match with his freckles.

And as Harry shifts to sit up, he finds the horrid confrontation that possess him.

Oh Merlin — he was hard.

"Harry, wake up, mate! Mails here!" his best friend urges; tugging at his arm in attempt to get him out of bed. Harry groans before rubbing the sleepiness away from his eyes as he crawled out of bed, adjusting his shirt so it fits over his pajama bottoms so hopefully his friend doesn't notice. Ron gave him a knowing look.

"What?" he asked.

"Your face is flushed, and..." he wiggles his eyebrows and gestures down to Harry's pants. Harry gulps uneasily. "did you dream about a girl?"

Harry plays it off with a yawn, not even trying to deny it. "Sure, Ron." he says in his best wide-awake voice.

The dreams are almost like visions. They all seem so realistic despite the fact that Harry has never witnessed the blonde act the way he does. But it all comes back in his head, almost as if it's engraved. 'If I hated you, Potter, I would just ignore you.' He hadn't even noticed the lack of insults and retorts Malfoy had fired at him until recently — but then again, he could be rather oblivious.

And he still found the rose in his textbook. The same fuchsia one as always. Could Malfoy had gave him that? He glanced at the vase sitting on his nightstand where all six roses were submerged in water. It couldn't possibly be Draco sending him roses. He couldn't be that ignorant. Surely someone else was sending them, right?

"It truly astounds me how you manage to solve so many mysteries yet you still avoid the obvious."

But what was obvious? What was given and what was missing? Ever since his little episode with the very first dream he'd had, Hermione had left him alone. But he still couldn't piece the puzzle together.

"About that mail?"

Ron nodded, pulling Harry up as he went to open the window. Pigwidgeon, (Ron's owl) crashed through the window as both Ron and Harry gave it a look of pity. After a few moments, his owl flew back up from below to drop Ron's envelop in his hand before awkwardly staggering away.

"What is it?" Harry asked, veering out of the way to look behind Ron's shoulder.

He shrugged pliantly. "Just another letter from mum. I'll open this elsewhere so her voice doesn't wake up the whole dorm," he said jokingly and left the bedroom as Harry gave a breathy laugh.

He was startled by another rapping at his window, before Harry's eyes lit up and Hedwig flew in to drop his mail onto a nightstand. He ran his hand through her feathers affectionately as he stopped his breath hitched at the sight before him.

Another rose was given. And this time, it had a small piece of parchment attached to it that Harry ripped off to read. He had to squint without his glasses.

'Mon amour' it said.

He remembered Draco speaking French not only in his dream, but in the corridor as well. 'Mon Dieu', he had said.

There went that familiar pang in his heart again.

And he planned. From this day forth, he would find out if Malfoy had really been the one sending him roses.

But first, he sprinted to the boys lavorty. He indeed needed to desperately take care of something.