All the Right Curves

All the right curves

"Third star on the right...and straight on till morning."

It was a habit that had been nurtured into tradition since their first year. She would sneak into his room. They would make idle and light of scandalous gossip and teachers and students. When their conversation lapsed, he would quote Peter Pan to her, and that was the same as saying goodnight because then they would speak no more.

In those deep hours of the night, there was no distinction, no lines, no anything. Everything was blurred, made just a little fuzzy by the shadows. In the dark, they couldn't see each other's faces, but she grew to know the dips and hollows and planes of his body.

The dips and hollows filled out into hard muscle, and the planes became more streamlined. During the day, she would hide her envy at the girls with curves and swaying hips behind a sneer, sharply conscious of the way her robes hung off her like they would a coat rack. She hung back as he turned his glittering wit and coolly amused attention on other students, other girls, and she rose magnificently to the occasion when he would glance back at her and say, "Thoughts, Pans?"

But at night, she still fit perfectly along his lean frame. Angles and pointed contours melded into softness that molded to his Seeker's body. She marveled at it. She couldn't find a reason for it. Perhaps it was because they had been doing this for so long, her body had grown to align itself neatly with his. It was nothing natural or fateful, it was simply habit.

As the pads of his fingers lost their softness and instead became rough from gripping a broom, he still clung to his lines of Peter Pan like a bedtime prayer, and she pressed her body closer to his, hoping to leave an indention, hoping to keep her shapeless, angular figure in tune with his.

And whenever he would say, "...straight on till morning," he would pull her close, tucking her head beneath his chin, and then the world would simply fall away for a while.

Still, Pansy wished Draco would kiss her.

She imagined it all the time. In History of Magic, in Herbology, in any class she could get away with daydreaming in. By her seventh year, she had caught Draco snogging enough girls in nooks and crannies that she was sure she knew exactly how it would be. She could just imagine the hard pressure, the hands gliding over her face to her back to pull her into him. She was sure she knew what he would taste like.

Then one night, after a loss to Gryffindor, Draco stumbled in. He was drunk. Pansy didn't wonder how he'd gotten the liquor. A Malfoy always got what he wanted.

He tripped on the edge of the rug and sprawled at her feet, and for a moment, Pansy imagined that she was the one with the power, the rational one.

But then he said, "Pansy" in a voice that was no different from his normal one, and she knew it was only an illusion. A smashed Draco Malfoy was still a Malfoy. There was no slur or stumbling sentences or stupidity. He had to work a bit on his motor skills, but for the most part, he was still Draco, and Pansy sank to her knees, crouching beside him, trying to sit him up.

"Draco, you fool," she muttered all the while, as her hands grasped at the collar of his oxford shirt and attempted to pull him upright.

His hands suddenly grasped hers, stilling her, and her surprised eyes flew to meet his. Draco's eyes were a soft dove grey, and he was staring at her without a trace of the alcohol he had imbibed.

Pansy's senses were maddeningly aware of Draco. His smell, lemons mingled with the alcohol, the sound of his light breath, the feel of his broom-roughened hands gripping her slender wrists.

"Draco?" She inquired before she could stop herself. She would kill herself if she had pulled him back to the moment and he drew away from her. She held her breath.

An eternity of waiting passed, and Draco tugged gently at her wrists, toppling her balance and spilling her into his lap. A hungry mouth swallowed her startled exclamation.

No, she couldn't have imagined this closeness, this intimacy. She couldn't have imagined how starved he seemed for her kisses, although she had seen so many times how he made as though he couldn't get enough of a girl, and that really, this wasn't anything special.

But it was special. It was oh-so precious and soft and delicate, like a soft note of a lingering scent, ready to dissipate.

Pansy couldn't have imagined the feel of being crushed against Draco's hard chest, the feel of being curled across an athlete's thighs. She couldn't have imagined the way Draco's tongue would demand access to her mouth, and the way his teeth would nip as her lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue and mouth.

She couldn't have imagined the way his hands slid down her sides and gripped her hips, holding her immobile against his lower body.

Pansy felt like she was dying, like she was slowly losing all the air in her body and she was going to die in Draco's arms.

She could never, ever, not in a million years, have imagined how Draco's hands and fingers would caress her shoulders, her lower back, her face, her breasts, her arse with so much intensity and concentration in what he was doing, like he was stroking and feeling the curvature of a girl with lush, lush lines.