Blue Jeans! Harry

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He'd been doing it ever since he caught me staring. It was just the one time. I should have known better, really. I should have known better than to ever open myself up, be vulnerable, allow Harry Potter to see me at my weakest—and when he caught me admiring the curves of his oh-so-taut arse muscles in the fabric of those brand-new stone-washed boot-cut gasp-tight Levis, he definitely saw me at my weakest. I was practically drooling. Harry Potter's walking by, someone hand Malfoy a bib. But how could I help it? Those jeans were clinging to him. Melded to his flesh, and baby, did I want to run my hand over his spine, down to his cheeks, and what else... Dammit, I wanted to throw him on the ground and do wicked things to him, was what.

But when he caught my gaze—which, I admit, probably reminded him of how the Big Bad Wolf looked at Little Red—I managed to turn it into an “I want to throw you on the ground and pummel you senseless, Potter” glare. He sneered back, but just for a second—a second only—there was a glimmer of a response from those bright eyes. Pisses me off, really, how they manage to be so green even at such a distance. Practically rivet you if you look longer than a mere second—and turning away from Potter was never something I was very good at. Just the flicker of understanding from them, and I knew. I knew he knew and I knew I was at his mercy.

I kept waiting for the cauldron to explode, but instead two days later, he showed up wearing the jeans again, and this time the bastard had paired it with, no, ladies and gentlemen, not his usual flannel, not a cardigan, not the stupid knit sweaters the Weasley woman makes for him—oh, no. We're talking a white Firebolt-acme tank top. Plain white, thin cotton, rib-hugging, with the broom handle on the front pointing straight down, for Salazar's sakes, like a bloody arrow. With his muscles rippling out from the sleeveless holes like they'd been newly bronzed and had yet to set.

The boy had never worn a tank, not even in Quidditch practices. I know because fifth year our practice sessions overlapped and the Boy Who Grew An, ahem, Sizeable Amount The Summer Before and I always seemed to wind-up exchanging insults as we dressed and undressed, respectively—and yes, with all the standard 15-year-old-guys' locker room jokes that go with. It always struck me that Potter and I should spend so much time verbally obliterating one another's self-esteem in that regard. By the end of last year I'd come up with almost as many insults for 'the little wizard that could ' as he'd found inappropriate uses for what he, with gross inaccuracy, mind you, termed, 'Dragon Heart-string, soft wood, 4 inches.' We had it out with each other every other day and it wasn't till the start of 6th year, when our schedules had to be drastically rearranged and we were no longer paired in Potions or practicing Quidditch on the same afternoons that I realized that I missed him.

I wondered if he missed the interaction too. I found out the next time we were in the Great Hall together and Potter, bloody Potter, went out of his way to 'accidentally' cause the straw in my chocolate milk to aim itself at my nose. I was almost so relieved to be facing off with him again that I nearly laughed and smiled instead of retaliated. Almost, of course. From that moment it was open season for Potter-Malfoy hunting with the two of us. Any chance he could get to hound me he took, and I just have to say that I am one damn fine fox. It didn't mean anything then—it felt like nothing had changed. I never did anything outrageous like fancy him naked or wonder if he fantasized about me in his showers. I didn't even like to look at the silly little tosser because he's always wearing this incomparably stupid smug expression whenever he looks at me, as though I have no idea just how low I am on his list of 'people I really give a flip about giving my time to.' I hate that about him. I knew I wasn't his best friend but there was something significant about being his worst enemy, and frankly, his lack of acknowledgment of that fact always made me about as irritable as a dragon in a...well, as a really mad dragon.

But then those jeans... happened... and I was in the middle of dodging a bit of exploding snap when I saw him, froze, and got hit upside the head by the blast... he looked up, saw me nursing a welt on my temple, still glued to his incredible figure—all right? Incredible. There, I said it. Potter has the most incredible body I've ever seen—and he—he... smiled a half-smile that said he knew what had really happened...

And the next thing I knew he was in my head. I was reliving out those locker-room arguments constantly; only this time I wasn't insulting little Harry, I was letting him get acquainted with little Drake...trying to remember the way he had looked underneath his robes, whether I was imagining that little dent in his throat near his collarbone or whether it was really there, and how long it would be before I had to get another look at it, a much, much closer look.

Then he showed up in the tank top. It wasn't enough that he had to wear it, no, but he had to speak to me—had to make sure I'd noticed. He and a bunch of Gryffindors had been playing football. I was all set to let the insults fly but when I saw Harry on the lawn bouncing a football between his legs wearing that outfit I just...words failed me, for once... And he, still bouncing the ball as skillfully as ever he rode a broomstick, came right up to me, held it out to me with one tanned forearm, and smugly asked if I wanted to play.

I don't think he was expecting me to respond that I'd only play if I could go one on one with him. He raised an eyebrow—he's got such thick bushy eyebrows. I really hate them, really—and said in a strange voice, “Maybe we should arrange that sometime...” and then, oh god—and then he flexed his muscles, all the while looking at me, knowing he had me right where he...wanted me? As he walked—strutted away, rather—something clicked. A suspicion that perhaps, yes, perhaps, the great Harry Potter, defeater of evil on a semi-regular basis, sixth year heart-breaker at the top of everyone's To-Shag list, was, in fact, interested in more than just defeating me, Draco Malfoy, ArchNemesis Extraordinaire, unofficial leader of Slytherin house and holder of the Hogwarts title of Undisputedly Wicked Sex-God.

That was a strange time indeed in the life of a Malfoy. I wanted those jeans. Moreover, I wanted them on Harry. Or rather off Harry. Hell. I wanted Harry, any way I could get him. He was all I could think about anymore. The next day, staring up at the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, I heard him laughing across the crowded room. The sound of his laughter sang in my dreams the following night and I awoke with a curse, knowing that something had happened and that something had to bloody well give. It was getting ridiculous. Malfoys don't do singing. Then there was the way I kept hearing that low tense voice in my head. “Maybe we should arrange...” ...as though it were an invitation. Or a threat. Or a promise. Or my death warrant. Or my insanity contract. Or all five at once.

Whatever it was it was incessant. It haunted me for the next week. I didn't go near Potter because the sappy violin music was by this point manifesting every time he happened to appear. And Malfoys definitely don't do violins. I realized in fact just how hard it was to avoid Potter, particularly as he suddenly seemed to be popping up everywhere: in the locker rooms around the Slytherin Quidditch practice time, fully clothed and fumbling noisily with his locker, presumably trying not to look at me the way I was trying not to look at him; in the dungeons, looking for a lost homework assignment, though why he should lose his homework near my common room was beyond me; by the well where Pansy and I formerly liked to go to snog, until I realized that I really hated putting my tongue in her mouth, and that the thought of putting anything else in it as well was thoroughly revolting. When I saw Harry there one evening, black shirt, sexpot jeans, and hair actually for once combed into place, it was too much. I'd only come there myself to have a think, and it was damned unnerving to see him appear there as well in the cool of the evening, looking like the walking epitome of unspeakably lustful things I was trying my best not to think about.

“Look here, Potter, have you been following me?” The bastard smirked and didn't say anything. And then...he did it. He drew his robes aside, pulled out a cigarette lighter and a pack of Lucky Strikes from his inside pocket. I was at this point just staring. The boy leaned back against the wall, stretched out those long legs, whipped out a cigarette, and managed to light it, take a puff, and exhale on a sigh, all as gracefully as if he were a dancer executing a magnificent tour jete.

I was smitten. I knew he had me. I wanted to strangle him. But I just sat there for a moment watching him, transfixed by those long black eyelashes, by the rise and fall of his chest against the riveting black of his t-shirt, by the way his lips parted for the cancer-stick, glowing faint pink against the moonlit flush of his skin...

The violins began. I was sure I heard someone begin singing something that sounded faintly like, "moonlight becomes you, it goes with your hair—you certainly know the right thing to wear...” and oh my hell, did he. I didn't even care that I was suddenly and irrevocably a walking cliché for Everything Malfoys Do Not Do. All I knew was that Potter was turning casually to me, calmly looking into my stare, that his eyes were glimmering bright green and sparkling with something I really wanted to have the opportunity to define, and that he was holding out a second fag to me, saying, “Have one?” with the tiniest of teasing half-smiles.

I held his eyes for a long moment, glaring into them, making sure that I saw everything in them I wanted to see, things I needed to see before I could continue, lest I make a fool out of myself, the final sanctuary of Malfoy pride. Finally I took his cigarette, let it fall to earth, and ground it into the soil with my heel. He blinked but he didn't falter until I calmly reached over to him, removed the cigarette from his mouth, and did the same thing to it, stilling any protests with the touch of my finger against his lips. He made none, only looked at me, slightly abashed but making every effort not to show it. I steadied my next breath and said firmly, raising an eyebrow at him, “I don't want you to smoke.”

He met my glare with an expression of forced disinterest and I stepped closer, encouraged enough by the way he was allowing my hand to remain against his lips to let my fingers slide over, up and around the side of his face, cupping his cheek with my palm. “I don't,” he said evenly, his gaze never wavering. “Just a few times here and there.” He uncrossed his legs and stood up and now we were eye level, and my hand was still cupping his flesh, and I wanted more, and he was...oh...just looking. At me.

“Good,” I breathed, and then I forgot what we were talking about. My other hand wrapped around his waist before I realized what was happening, before I realized that he was allowing my fingers to draw his chin steadily forward, just that much closer to mine. It was like he knew, like he was... “You...want this,” I said with sudden clarity, and he nearly did me in by searching my eyes eagerly with his own, parting his lips, and then not saying anything at all, only waiting and watching and moving closer. My hand found the parting between Harry's skin and the fabric of his shirt, moving with a separate consciousness of its own of which I wasn't fully aware until it made contact with warm flesh and Harry shivered in anticipation. My fingers pressed against his body just as his own found my spine and laced themselves at the drop of my waist. I was encircled. Harry Potter was holding me. Potter. Harry. Harry...and then his mouth was reaching for mine and my eyes were falling shut of their own accord, my lips parting and allowing his gentle, sweet touch to brush against me, soothing and cool and instantly eager for more. He kissed like he flew, smoothness and rhythm and absolute grace, and just in the way that I had always hated him because he made me want to watch him fly forever, I now found myself falling into the depths of his kiss and wanting never to come out: wanting never to stop doing anything but losing my tongue beneath his, pulling him closer into me, feeling him arch and maneuver his lips to give him more of me, wanting to give him more of me until I had nothing left to give because everything I had, everything I was, was simply his.

His lips against mine were soft and a little chapped, like the fabric of the jeans that my hands were finally sliding over, enjoying the way his muscles quivered beneath my touch and the way he leaned into my caresses. The first kiss was slow and relaxed. We took our time, fully aware that the harder kisses would follow. For the moment it was simply an exploration, a 'what do you think about this?', an acceptance of what was, and an expression of what could—what would be. I never knew kisses could say so much. But I shouldn't have been surprised. This was Harry. We'd been communicating without words for so long there was nothing more to say I couldn't have discerned just from the look in those stunning eyes of his.

And when I looked, that evening, I was moved by what I saw, in a way I couldn't have begun to describe even if I wanted to. All that matters is that the way I felt and the way he'd been acting finally all made sense. And it was about a lot more than just a pair of blue jeans and how sexy he looked smoking a fag.

Not to say that the blue jeans went ignored. They made very frequent appearances thereafter, and, like any good cameo, they usually didn't stay on very long. But when I think of that night I don't think about what the outfit did to my worked-up state. I remember that simple exchange of glances when our eyes met and held after our first kiss. That was it—the moment when it became perfectly clear we were staring down something big together. Something that would redefine my life. Something that would validate his. Something I wanted more than just about anything your heart can possibly comprehend.

I know. I gave up trying to comprehend it long ago.