He's Really Divine

he's really divine

by rae

Harry really hated Lockhart.

Walls covered with huge pink flowers, so big and so tacky that Harry thought, actually thought I think my eyesight is offended. Falling, drifting, heart shaped confetti, sprinkling everyone who had the misfortune to be beaneath it, getting in everyone's hair, on their robes. Lockhart's pink robe- pink- which made Harry feel quite ill, more than anything else, and, maybe most horribly, the cupid-dressed dwarves. The moony, giggly stranger that Hermione had seemingly become, at the first sign of Lockhart's phony grin and coiffed blond hair. And, then, worse than anything else-

The singing Valentine. The sodding singing Valentine. As it had been happened, Harry had tried to laugh along with the room of roaring students, but couldn't help wishing that he would be struck dead at that very moment, he had been through a lot in his twelve years, but this this humiliation was so complete, so irreversible that he really couldn't see a point in continuing on with his life. It was just hideous. Then Malfoy, as usual, being an utter prat and going after the journal. Their rather public arguement, Percy's being a git, and then Malfoy's snarling "I don't think Potter liked your Valentine much!" at Ginny. All in all, Harry decided that he despised Valentine's Day.

Ginny covered her face with her hands and ran out of the room, as Ron pulled out his wand. Not a good idea, thought Harry, as he reached for Ron and stilled him. But Ron was trembling, he was so angry, so Harry looked into his eyes carefully and then turned and went after the blond Slytherin himself.

Draco hadn't gone far, he was in fact standing out in the hall, leaning casually against a stone wall, inspecting his nails. Seemed that he'd calmed down, then, Harry thought, maybe making younger students miserable did well for his mood swings. He looked up at Harry's entrance and smirked, lowering his arms and crossing them over his chest.

"Why did you do that to her?" Harry asked, frowning.

"Because I'm a bastard." He said it coldly, matter-of-fact, like it was a ridiculous question that didn't deserve any decent answer.

"Well," Harry said, blinking rapidly. "Yes. But you aren't supposed to admit that. See, we have to have a disagrement now, good and evil, dark and light, all that rot. If we agree that you're evil, there's no conflict. There has to be conflict."

"Right. And that throws off your whole self-righteous trip, eh Potter?"

Very troubled by this conversation, Harry removed his glasses so that he could tiredly rub at his eyes. He was expecting a duel, harsh words, maybe some lingering, overty-hostile glances. Something he could tell Ron about later and have him feel validated about, not - not- well, whatever the soddingbloodyhell this was. "Can you not understand why it would, Malfoy?"

If possible, Draco's smirk became even well, smirkier. "And what if I told you that it hadn't even been Ginny? That she knew it wasn't her but was sure you'd believe the accusation so she took off anyway, sobbing her little Weasley heart out.

Adjusting his glasses, which he'd just put back on, he said, "As I'm already shocked, I doubt it would really be something of a furthur surprise."

"I sent the Valentine, you sod."

Harry gaped at the other boy slightly, mouth falling open in surprise and unwilling to close again. "Hang on, you? Was it just to embarrass me then? Or something else, maybe. Have me murdered by horrible poetry?"

He said nothing, just raised one eyebrow. Harry looked into Draco's gray eyes, each time he looked they were so clouded over, dark and cold, a rainstorm with no signs of stopping. He felt a chill, goose-bumps breaking out all over his skin, a tingly feeling at the back of his neck, in the tips of his fingers. How does Malfoy do that?

Pushing those feelings aside, he looked at the other boy somewhat defiantly and said, "Crap poetry, Malfoy. I suggest you practice more before you give woo-ing someone another go."

Unexpectedly, Draco's expression fell. For a moment his gray eyes seemed clear and his sadness showed through, but then he let his eyes narrow an there was nothing but anger there. "Fuck. Off." Harry watched as the blond stalked off, his shiny black shoes hitting the floor loudly with each step.

And he felt bad, though he shouldn't have, because what if Malfoy had actually meant the Valentine? It sure seemed like it now, didn't it? Wasn't his fault if he wrote bad poetry. Or was an arse. And spoiled. And horrid to all Harry's friends. And the son of a right, creepy bastard-

Alright, so most of those things are his fault. Then why is it that I feel so awful for what I said?

So he ran to catch up with him and moved in Draco's way, blocking his path. Malfoy stopped and looked at him with eyes so dark, so empty, they nearly looked black.

"I did have a favorite part of it, though," he said, his voice nearly sing-song. "I wish he was mine, he's really divine.' Really like that, it's nice."

Draco rolled his eyes and moved to pass Harry. "Bugger off," he mumbled.

"Think I'm divine, do you?" he said, smoothly blocking Draco's way. He looked down, his green eyes sparkling with amusement. "What if I think that you're devine too, Malfoy?"

Draco blanched. His heart was beating much quicker than he thought healthy.

Harry pressed a quick kiss to Draco's cheek, right next to his mouth. Then he pulled back, but still leaning in, said, "Happy Valentine's day, Malfoy."

Draco stared, eyes wide, unable to think of a single thing to say.

"But do work on the poetry, mind you."

"I hate you so much."

"Yeah," Harry replied, grinning cheekily. "Right." Then he turned and headed back to the Great Hall.