A Flawless Plan

VII. [Unwanted]

I'm not much of a winter enthusiast, really, yet there's something about the first snow. It's difficult to explain without going all poetical and stuff. And I hate going poetical. Spoils my Slytherin image. But I guess it doesn't matter anymore.

Maybe it's because the ground is no longer of a dull and dirty colour. The thing about the first snow, I mean. It's hard to be coherent on a night like this. Or perhaps it's the air, that smells differently. Or, the sky, which has a different texture. And the snowflakes keep coming down, falling, falling, falling.

There was a time when I used to step outside as soon as the snowing ceased just for the sake of watching my feet crushing the white surface, still frail. It gave me a very nice feeling of control. I was the first to disturb it, the marks I left making the perfect whiteness less perfect. I could've run across it in every direction, trample it under my feet, tear pieces of it with my hands. But I didn't. That was the job of the noisy, mindless crowd that was bound appear soon enough, bruising the silence with their laughter, profaning the fragile beauty with their careless steps, twisting it into deformed snowmen, or messing it for a useless snow fight. It didn't matter that the traces they left would disappear with the following snow. To me, they were like wounds, which might've healed, but always left scars.

That's why I only liked the first snow. There were always scars, under the layers that followed.

I used to walk, sometimes, until I reached a point where the whiteness engulfed me completely, and then I used to let myself slip and sink into its coolness. And time and space ceased to exist. It was soothing. Cold. Silent. Dispassionate. But safe. Then I used to look up at the sky and it mirrored the ground, except that I didn't see myself in that mirror, which made it so easy to pretend I didn't exist, that I too was a part of this agglomeration of tiny ice crystals, feeling nothing, wanting nothing, fearing nothing.

And sometimes, as I laid in the snow, it started snowing again, and I still watched the skies, while little white fragments were now coming down at deadly speeds. I felt them upon my face, clinging to my eyebrows, stinging my lips, melting like undesired tears into my eyes and making me blink.

There's something about the first snow. Once, it used to be the most beautiful part of winter. But now I'm just drunk.

~''~

It had begun snowing soon after breakfast, on the first day of the winter break. I went outside around noon, pleased to see that no other living soul had, so far, followed my example. I needed to ponder the recent turn of events (more specifically, Father's last letter), or so I kept telling myself. It was as good a pretext as any other to simply go lying in the snow and pretend that the rest of the world had vanished, and along with it my troubles. Namely, one trouble called Potter.

I'd been lying on my back for a while, gazing at the sky, letting my mind wander freely, when - splash! Somebody had just thrown a fistful of snow into my face and it was not a pleasant sensation.

"Potter," I somehow managed to drawl, between spitting the snow out of my mouth and rubbing it off from my eyes, while a part of it slowly melted and slid down over my face and neck and then under my robes, sending shivers down my spine. Definitely not a pleasant sensation.

"Oh, so you're not dead, after all, Malfoy! Well, one could hope..." Potter was currently staring down at me, with a weird grin on his face.

"Get lost, Potter," I retorted, not actually wanting him to go - I'm sure you understand this - but for the sake of conversation.

I resumed my former position and closed my eyes to make a point, knowing, of course, it would be lost on Potter. It suited me very fine right then.

"Go dig a hole somewhere, and burry yourself, or put your wand at a good use and vanish your arse out of my sight. You're ruining my perfect, peaceful moment in the snow, Potter."

He started to giggle like an idiot. Well, it was actually sort of enthralling, but still... And the next moment, I heard a soft thud and I knew Potter had just landed himself by my side into the snow. Also, I'm quite positive that he didn't see the little smile I felt creeping on my lips without me being able to refrain from it.

"So what are you still doing here, Malfoy?" Something was definitely changed about Potter. He'd almost sounded friendly.

"Right," I replied, still not opening my eyes, nor moving, "I keep forgetting that you own this particular spot... Honestly, Potter, you're not the king of the world, no matter what Dumbledore keeps telling you! I am here because I want to and because this is no one's territory in particular."

Potter scowled. I wasn't looking, but I'm positive he did.

"Rumours had it that you were an intelligent life form, Malfoy... I didn't ask what you were doing here in the snow, you idiot, but what are you still doing here at school? Has your horrible family finally got tired of you and decided they didn't want you back?"

"Was that a joke? Ha ha, very funny, Potter. Satisfied? Will you leave me alone now?" I replied with an even voice.

"I don't understand you, Malfoy." He sounded rather confused. "I've just insulted you and your family. You should be throwing fists at my face right now."

I rolled to my right so suddenly that Potter actually gasped at finding himself lying under me without any warning.

"My, my, Potter, I'm flattered! But if you are that desperate for my touch, all you have to do is ask, because your insults, well, they suck," I said, leaning down to his lips. I stopped when our faces almost touched and his breath was warm upon my own freezing lips.

It didn't last for too long. Potter suddenly pushed me aside and started to run. While I was standing up, arranging my robes, a snowball hit my shoulder. I retorted almost instinctively, aiming at Potter's head. He dodged and grabbed another handful of snow. And thus the snow fight started.

I should probably point out that I consider snow fights to be utterly undignified and silly. I felt incredibly stupid, running after Potter and trying to make him digest a considerable quantity of snow, but I couldn't just retreat and allow him to laugh at me. I think we chased and tried to hit one another with snowballs for about half an hour, before we both ran out of breath.

"Call it quit, Malfoy! You're loosing, anyway!"

"The only looser here is you, Potter!"

"You don't stand a chance against me, Malfoy, you're too out of shape! Have you checked a mirror lately? You look like a ghost!"

I don't remember how it happened, but suddenly we were very close again. Potter's expression changed, and he studied my face intently, which made me slightly uncomfortable.

"No, I was wrong," he whispered so faintly that I mostly read the words from his lips, rather than hearing them. "Not a ghost, more like a demon. A demon of winter."

Well, well, who would have thought that Potter was such a poetical kind of soul! But something stopped me to make proper fun of him right then.

"So beautiful," he continued and I felt my legs melting. Did he mean what I wanted him to mean? But his eyes changed the next moment, becoming unreadable. "So cold. So deceiving. I'm not playing your twisted, sick little game, Malfoy! So that you know!"

"Fuck yourself, Potter!" I snapped. A sign of weakness, loosing control on the tiniest of provocations. But Potter still managed to get the worst out of me back then.

"Some fucking nerve you have!" I couldn't stop yelling at him. "Why are you here then, if you don't want anything to do with my twisted, sick person?"

We ended up fighting, of course. Fighting in the snow and ruining it, which made me furious. Why did Potter had to ruin every single flawless thing in my world? I both hated him and wanted him madly, achingly, during the breathtaking seconds of our fight. It never occurred to me, until then, that fighting could be so similar to an act of passion. Potter had managed to pin me down somehow, his knee pressing into one of my hips, his hands bruising my face, crushing my chest; then we rolled over the ground, entangled, and I was suddenly the one pushing down on him, his shoulders digging hard into the cold surface. His heartbeats accelerated, and they were so loud that I could have mistaken them for my own. Or maybe they were truly my own.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Potter finally recaptured his breath and questioned me with angry eyes and flushed cheeks.

"Not very creative, are we, Potter? I distinctly remember you asking the same question only days ago, after one particularly, rather heated - interaction we had." I released his wrists and let my hands travel slowly over his chest and down to his waist.

"Malfoy..." His voice was quivering, almost pleading. It made my blood start burning like contaminated with an incurable disease. Hate and desire. I wondered if Potter would understand.

"What I want, Harry-" I spoke idly, showing no emotion, yet so aware of how every single part of my body was aching for him.

"Is-"

I brushed my lips against his earlobe and traced a path down his cheek with the tip of my tongue.

"To abuse-"

My mouth went over his in a split second, before he could properly register what was happening. I bit his lower lip so hard that he let out a cry. Small drops of blood rolled down his chin.

"And to adore," I finished, now gently tasting his bruised lip, sucking the blood away, then brushing a few strands of hair from his eyes.

His eyes. They were again full of unnamed fears, like they had been weeks ago, on that deserted corridor. But he didn't protest, he didn't move and he didn't speak. I sank my fingers into the snow and took a small quantity to place it upon Potter's bleeding lip, which had already began to swell. He whimpered. And so I couldn't do anything but kiss him some more. He struggled a bit under me and I figured his bleeding lip must've hurt, but I didn't stop. His lips were cold and wet and soft, and the snow melted into his mouth, making him choke and gasp for air. I let him take a few breaths, but before he could close his mouth again my tongue was entangled with his, and he tasted like snow and blood, (well, what did you expect - strawberry cream?) and deception. Which he shouldn't have, because deception shouldn't taste like anything or anyone.

"Get off me, Malfoy!" He jerked so violently beneath me this time that I found myself lying flat on my back - again - and rather stunned, too.

Potter didn't look back. He stormed to the castle, his robes billowing frantically due to the wind that had just started to blow. His Gryffindor scarf, red and gold, remained forgotten in the snow. Mine, too, lay feet away. I could feel the anger rising in my chest like never before in my life. Who and what gave him the right to accuse me of being 'deceptive'? Like he cared! Like it would have made any difference if I wasn't! And what gave him the right to act disgusted of me and of my 'twisted, sick little game', then run away? Like he wasn't the one who kissed back! Like he wasn't the one who trembled so enticingly every time I touched him!

Drawing in a deep breath - the icy sting in my nostrils fortunately brought me back to a proper state of mind - I went to pick up my scarf, but I didn't touch Potter's. He could summon it later if he cared. Because I most certainly didn't. And I was already very cold.

~''~

Only after returning to my room, I noticed that my robes were soaking wet, because I'd been too distracted to put a Drying Charm on them. Again, it would be Potter's fault if I caught a cold. I sneezed. That settled it. As much as I didn't want to, I had to go to the Infirmary and let that old hag, Pomfrey, feed me some foul tasting medicine.

As my luck used to turn lately, Potter was already there. I was about to open the Infirmary door when I heard his voice and stopped.

"Um, I bit it by mistake," Potter was saying.

Pomfrey must have inquired about his lip. I had to choke down a contemptuous snigger. Really, Potter was such a pathetic liar that I almost felt sad for him...

Apparently, Pomfrey was following a similar line of thought. "Hm," I heard the old hag muttering, "let me tell you, Mr. Potter, that it looks suspiciously like a kissing bite. If I didn't know that there were no young ladies staying for holidays, I wouldn't find it so easy to believe your explanation."

Potter was blushing. I simply knew he was blushing - like a sodding innocent maiden - and I felt the unstoppable need to see it myself. So I opened the door.

Pomfrey turned her attention away from Potter to see who had just come in. Lucky her, it was me.

"Mr. Malfoy?" She looked at me questioningly, and not very pleased. Call it mutual dislike...

"I'm on the verge of catching cold. Would you, please, do something about it?"

"Well, since you ask so nicely, Mr. Malfoy..." I guess she never quite got over me calling her something along the lines of 'Old Vile Crazy Bitch, Stupid Useless Sorry Excuse Of A Healer, And On Top Of It, Ugly'. It happened in my third year - the Hippogriff Incident. (Potter's fault again.) And I might have not been that coherent. But what can I say, I was a temperamental child, and she was doing some pretty nasty things to my arm. I think it was the 'Old and Ugly' part that really did it, though - really made her hate me. Because it was the only part which was also true. People tend to start hating you when you throw the truth in their faces.

"Please sit, Mr. Malfoy." She gestured to the empty bed next to the one occupied by Potter. "I'd rather take care of your problem first, as Mr. Potter needs my whole attention." In other words, 'I'll kick your sorry arse out of my Infirmary as soon as possible, you little impertinent piece of dung!' Dear old Pomfrey... I would've smirked at her, just to show how unimpressed I was, but she turned to look for the medicine in one of the shelves on the wall.

I chanced a look at Potter. He was, of course, ignoring me as best as he could. He looked like a mess, that is, a real mess, not just the mess he usually looked like. Pomfrey's concern for him was unsurprising. Apart from his bruised lip, he was very pale, his robes were still wet, as well as his hair. Drops of melted snow were sliding along his forehead and temples, like sweat, making him look ill.

Instead of sitting where Pomfrey had indicated, I went and dropped casually by Potter's side.

"My, Potter, is that a kissing bite?"

I brushed his cheek with my index finger lightly, teasingly. He jerked away from me so suddenly, that Pomfrey actually turned to see what happened.

"Leave Mr. Potter alone, Mr. Malfoy," she snapped, severely, somehow under the impression that she would be intimidating.

"That's all right, Madam Pomfrey," Potter replied almost instantly, managing to sound less frightened than he looked. "It's none of your business, Malfoy." He actually glared at me. "But if you want to know, I bit my lip by mistake," he ended defiantly.

"Oh, please, Potter! I know a love mark when I see one!" Especially when it's one of mine.

"Mr. Malfoy, stop harassing Mr. Potter, he's not feeling well! And I'm sure you know there aren't any girls staying at Hogwarts for holidays this year."

It was happening. Potter was turning red again.

"So? Anyway, it doesn't look like a girl's bite, if you ask me. I've always said that Potter was too pretty for his own sake."

Potter became very fascinating to watch. Out of the sudden, all the colour withdrew from his cheeks and he became paler than before.

"But if you want a piece of advice, Potter," I continued, looking straight at him, "you don't go around displaying love bites like that. It makes you look so... owned."

"Here's your medicine, Mr. Malfoy!" Pomfrey practically hit me in the face with the goblet. "Drink it and then get out from my Infirmary, before- Dear Merlin, Potter, are you all right?" Potter looked positively green and ready to spill his stomach all around, but his eyes were still dark and flaming.

"Malfoy, OUT!" The crazy hag pushed me to the door, without even giving me the chance to empty my goblet. I pressed the door handle, but just before exiting, I felt the compelling need to gaze at Potter once more. Pomfrey had made him lie down onto the bed and was gently pulling his glasses from his face. He simply stood there quietly, staring at the ceiling, shaking a bit while she covered him with a blanket. He looked so frail at that moment, that I both wanted to laugh and curse myself for what I had done to him. Of him.

I didn't do either. Instead, I emptied my goblet in one long gulp and it tasted every drop as vile as snake venom must have tasted, burning my throat, but for the first time in my life I didn't have the energy to hate Pomfrey for it. Potter was lying in that bed, the nurse fussing around him like an animated wheel, and I was unwanted there. I opened the door and left the Infirmary. I had to be the one who always left, leaving somebody else to pick the pieces.

~''~

Potter didn't show up that night, all the better for him. Instead, his owl was waiting with a short note for 'her'. He wrote that he'd caught a cold and Madam Pomfrey didn't let him return to the Gryffindor dorms - especially since he was alone there - so he would miss our next two encounters. I was actually relieved. Since that night (you know, the one when the idiot walked out on me), Potter hadn't really been himself around 'her'. We never talked about that night again. Actually, he used to sulk and not talk at all - which proved just how much he needed 'her', if he was still showing up, despite the growing tension. He generally didn't turn down kissing, but it was more like he was trying to prove a point, and I had more than just an idea about what exactly this point might have been. Potter struggled, pointlessly, to prove himself that he still liked girls. Like that would stop him from having certain 'entertaining' thoughts about boys, as well! Gryffindor naïveté, how very charming.

One way or another, two nights free of Potter came as a nice break. Or so I thought at first. Pomfrey's medicine, although successfully preventing a running nose and a sore throat, left me with a slight fever. Nothing I couldn't have handled myself without her further assistance, fortunately, but resilient enough to weaken my body. Even so, or perhaps because of it, I felt suddenly more light headed than I'd been in weeks. My worries lifted, and my mind and heart gone numb, I surprised myself by yawning heartily. It was like my body decided it couldn't take any more and took over my mind, with a mind of its own, sternly set on resting. My feet stumbled as I dragged myself to the bed. It was unbelievable! I was truly sleepy!

I decided to suppress the Dreamless Sleep Draught and properly enjoy rest for the first time in I couldn't remember how long. Now, unless you've used DSD with regularity and then suppressed it suddenly, you probably know nothing about side effects. I, for one, didn't. And I went to bed embarrassingly unaware that was going to have the most amazing wet dream in my entire existence. Now, don't get me wrong, suppressing DSD suddenly doesn't automatically produce wet dreams, but rather enhances your body reactions to the first dream you have. Just my luck to dream of Potter!

I was kissing him again, in the dream. We still laid in the snow, and Potter's lip was bleeding, but he was making no attempt to get free from my grip. And then he was pushing his body against mine, saying 'But I'm sure you want more...', and then he was moaning my name.

And then, because it was a dream, most of our clothes conveniently disappeared but I didn't feel the cold, and Potter was hissing in my ear loads of nonsenses, about wanting my so very gorgeous body, and how he was entirely mine to take right then and there, and how we could fuck for hours if we wanted to.

I closed my eyes ecstatically in the dream while being very naked, very hard and having Potter sucking on my earlobe. I opened them again in my room, very much clothed and alone, but still hard. That's because Life's a bitch.

The dream left me sweating and shaking in a distressing state of confusion. It also made me realise something. During the last months, I'd managed to go through a record number of states of mind - from unhealthily obsessive with Potter to occasionally weak when it came to him, to unpardonably lustful when I was near him, to utterly infatuated with him, to shamefully incoherent in thinking due to him, to sickly in need to feel and hurt him and only him. I held no longer control over myself and I had every intention to change it as soon as possible.

First of all, Potter encounters with 'her' had to stop. 'She' would give him no explanation, which would break his little Gryffindor heart, and that would be the glorious ending of my equally glorious plan. Have I mentioned before what a perfect, flawless plan it had been all along? But I wouldn't let him know it had been me all along. That might have been the idea before, but now the consequences would've been disastrous for my more recently acquired Obsession with Potter, or I should say, because of it. As for the said more recently acquired Obsession with Potter... Damn, the time was too short! I couldn't see him until I would be perfectly in control of myself, but Father's letter messed it all up! Because if Potter was to die soon... No, I couldn't think about that! A dead Potter was a disturbing thought, which I didn't want to analyse more closely. I desired him more alive than ever, and mine. Just have him surrender completely, and stop pushing me back, and let me do to him things he'd never have dreamed of before, and loose myself into those eyes...

And that was precisely why I couldn't see Potter before getting a grip over myself. (Which, in the light of the events that followed, may appear rather hilarious, because it's exactly what didn't happen. Sadly, I didn't have visionary powers.) I was determined. The next time when Potter and I would kiss, it wouldn't be just kissing, and I was going to be in control. I'd have him pinned under me, trembling, every particle of his body calling for me, and I'd be able to touch him gently, caressing his skin, or hurt him just the same, like I did in the snow, simply because he'd be entirely mine... Only thinking about it made me hard again. I went to open the window and let the icy night air cool my flushed cheeks, before returning to bed and taking care of the situation.

Father didn't say when Whatever-Was-Supposed-To-Happen would happen. There was still time, I told myself. So I would wait. Even if I had to lock myself in my room and vanish the key to stay away from Potter. And no more night encounters after the next one, too. With 'her' out of the picture, maybe he wouldn't have the strength to push me back anymore.

~''~''~