Under Cold Stars

He stands looking up at the sky with closed eyes. He can hear the wind whistling through the stands and, beyond the ground, around the turrets of the school, further still, through the trees. He listens harder; tries to imagine being outside of himself and looking down from the stars, with open eyes, at his physical presence. He begins to think he can see it now, see his shoulders set back, his neck stretched taught and a slight crease in his brow. His lips are open, just a fraction, his breath forming little white pieces of heaven in the air, before being whirled away to dance in the wind. He wants to dance in the wind.

Now his focus is broadening; he can see the flags of the stadium, their bold colours muted in the sepia night. He can hear someone walking towards him but does not wish to see who it is. Not yet. Besides, he thinks he knows.

He imagines the lines of the world; not of longitude and latitude but of magic and humanity. Running, as always, at cross purposes. He tries to move them, ripple them where he touches but they do not respond so he turns back to the visible world and spreads himself still further, lengthening the line that attaches him to life, always keeping one eye on it, prepared to snatch it should it snap.

It's blissful. Outside of his body, his blood running through veins built of more than just muscle and flesh but of light and true being, not biology. He looks at the stars but they are the same as before so he turns back to look over the school grounds. Hagrid's cottage, the greenhouses, the forest, the school itself and the roof of the Great Hall where he knows, were he to fly his broom over it, he would be seen despite the brick and mortar.

The thought jars him for no more reason than his sudden awareness of reality. He feels the familiar rush of the return and then he is back inside and aware of someone standing in front of him. He chooses not to open his eyes but instead recalls what the stars look like and moves them around on his eyelids waiting for the intruder to reveal himself.

And they do, but the manner of their revelation is so shocking that he almost falls backwards, his eyes snapping open immediately to see what, or who, has brushed his lips.

“What are you doing out here Potter?” Malfoy snaps, evidently uncomfortable with Harry's sudden reaction.

“I was just...What are you doing out here?” Malfoy snorts in response and turns away to leave but Harry springs forward and grabs his arm, unwilling to let him go without some kind of explanation. “What...I mean, just now...what did you, you know, what...made me...”

“Who knows Potter? Your own idiot lack of self-control probably. You looked like you were away with the fairies, as if they'd have you.”

“Malfoy, that's not an answer, what did you do?”

“I just didn't think you'd snap out of it so suddenly.” And with that he stalks off leaving Harry looking perplexed, rubbing a cold finger over his lips.

****

From the window he can see someone standing alone, right in the middle of the pitch, arms hanging loose by his sides, head tipped back, apparently looking up at the sky. But he can't see who it is, he just knows.

Taking his robe from the chair, he slips it over his semi-clothed body and heads out to the quidditch pitch, ignoring the aggressively whispered questions of Crabbe demanding to know where he's going. He fobs him off with a wave of his hand and hears him settle back down into the bedclothes, seeking the sleep from which he has been so rudely awoken.

Outside, the wind is vicious and finds the folds of his robe that lead to his flesh, causing his skin to prickle, the hairs standing on end. He neglects to pull it tighter around him, nor does he quicken his pace, on the contrary, he is enjoying the chilling sensation of hard nipples being rubbed by rough cotton, similar to that of the denim against his erection.

On the edge of the field now he can see who it is, not that he needed confirmation, but there is no denying the jolt he gets in seeing Harry so open and so oblivious. He slows his step, taking in the other boy's appearance, remembering their fights, remembering how small they both must have looked just those few years ago. Remembering the smell of him when they'd fallen in a fight and landed in a crumpled heap, egos dented, but laughing, laughing so hard it had seemed they would never stop. They'd been so close then, so near to something more. Then the cavalry had arrived and it was back to Potter and Malfoy; first names put away for use between real friends.

There are just a few metres between them and Draco closes the gap quickly, stands in front of his classmate, his enemy, his crush. Crush. He doesn't like to think of it in those terms, he's always considered Harry to be the one with 'tendencies', himself being as straight as a board. But crush is the most appropriate word he can think of so far because it's definitely not love and lust implies a desperation that he would never associate with himself. Desperation is for little girls who can't have what they lust after.

And now he is leaning forward, edging closer to Harry, his attention focused wholly on the boy's loosely parted lips. He could grab him, kiss him, long and deep and reap whatever consequences there might be, though he doubts that anyone as camp as Potter could possibly turn him down. Or, as he chooses to, he can lightly press his lips to Harry's and pull away, assess the reaction, and carry on however he sees fit.

Harry jerks; it is so sudden and unexpected that Draco almost falls and has to get a hold on his facial expression before Harry registers the shock so clearly portrayed there.

“What are you doing out here Potter?” Malfoy snaps. He had expected a slow flickering open of the eyelids, a casual awakening to consciousness. Harry had obviously been so far out of himself that Draco hadn't thought it possible for him to come round so quickly.

“I was just...What are you doing out here?” Draco snorts, incapable of an answer to that without giving in to the inner voice that is screaming for him to kiss Harry and bugger everything. Yes, buggery would be nice. Instead he turns away but Harry's hand is there, gripping his arm, freezing him. “What...I mean, just now...what did you, you know, what...made me...”

“Who knows Potter? Your own idiot lack of self-control probably. You looked like you were away with the fairies, as if they'd have you.” Insults were far safer, far more familiar, but now he was afraid of taking them too far and appearing suspiciously out of sorts through that, so he purses his lips and scowls, perfectly in character.

“Malfoy, that's not an answer, what did you do?”

“I just didn't think you'd snap out of it so suddenly.” He can't hide the whine from his voice so this time he really does leave, resisting the urge either to run or to turn back and jump Harry. Images of the two of them sprawling on the ground flicker past his eyes and he hangs his head low. The cold iss not so pleasant now as he makes his way back to Slytherin, thoughts racing without pause.