Silver Smoke and Shattered Mirrors

Chapter Four

Greenhouse Six

Sometimes just a smell is enough to get me hard.

The smell of anything sun-browned and tart, of fresh-cut lawns and lemons, of sweet autumn winds and clear glasses of water. The smell of freedom and the no inhibitions and the world outside. The smell of green. The smell of Potter.

Herbology's the worst. It's miles and miles of phallic-shaped plants growing, hardening, thickening, greening. They release their bitter green scent into the glass greenhouses, smothering me in a sweltering haze of Potterphilia.

"Draco, what are you doing, man?"

Terry Boot stares at me with a disgusted expression on his face. I quickly glance down and surreptitiously shift my body away from his gaze.

"What?" I drawl, mustering as bored an expression as I can to take the edge off my red face. Covertly, I arrange my robes so that I have all...angles covered.

"You just fed the Flapping Lily a bumblegroot," the Ravenclaw points out as though it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Now it's got the hiccoughs and Professor Sprout will take points off from both of us because you're bungling the assignment."

"I bungled nothing," I retort.

Boot merely rolls his eyes and heaves a long-suffering sigh. He cradles the pathetically spasming plant and tries various methods and tactics in an attempt to coax the bloody thing out of its fit.

I could care less. Who gives a fuck about a bunch of kneazle fodder except that daft Longbottom anyway? I finger my father's pipe in the pocket of my robes. I'm desperately craving a puff, but decide against lighting it next to the already wheezing Wheazlebrunt Shrub and risk more of Boot and Sprout's indignation.

Glancing at the hourglass on Sprout's desk, I notice that the top is still a little more than halfway full. I absentmindedly chew the side my finger, resolving not to bring out Father's pipe. Resolving not to the think of the night I shared the ghost of a kiss with Potter. Resolving not to think of Potter at all. Or the upcoming Quidditch match.

Quidditch. The mere thought o it drives a cold fist through my stomach.

Yeah, it was great at first. Or it was going to be great. I was going to be the best damn flier at Hogwarts, make Seeker of the Slytherin House team, win the Quidditch cup.

But things don't always turn out as you plan them.

Potter waltzes in our first year and snatches a spot on his House team. He never fucking loses a single bloody match he flies in. Now Quidditch just makes me sick. It's a one-sided game when it comes to Gryffindor. When it comes to Potter. He holds the aces and dominated the field. Girls go wild over him when he's riding that accursed Firebolt and it's at times like that I want to take that ruddy broom and shatter it with my bare hands, claiming him as mine.

Mine.

"Draco!"

"What, Boot?" I return, bored.

"I want you to properly look after Flapping Lily whilst I get it some water," he says, annoyed.

I wave him off. He sets the plant at our table and I poke at it halfheartedly. Its black petals flap open and shut in a reaction to my intermittent jabbing. I repeat this mindless gesture a few more times.

Open.

Close.

Open.

Close.

Open. Close

Open. Close.

Open-close. Open-close.

Its velvety petals cast shadows over a brilliantly emerald heart and suddenly, it's Potter's eyes staring at me, with his long, dark lashes gently fluttering over viridian eyes.

I shove the plant away from me in surprise and it falls over, crashing onto the greenhouse floor in a resounding explosion of dirt and terracotta pot.

"Malfoy, you blasted git, what in bloody hell are you doing?" Boot yells furiously, hurrying to clean up the mess as the students turn to stare at us.

"Mister Malfoy, what is the meaning of this?"

I look up to see Professor Sprout's befeathered mop of a head quivering in indignation.

"Nothing, Professor, I just----"

"Do you have any idea how difficult Flapping Lilies are to come by?" she asks, picking up the mewling flower.

"No, ma'am."

She doesn't like my tone. She shoots me a frosty look and I match her, gaze for gaze.

"In my office tonight, Mister Malfoy. After dinner. Detention."

"For what?!" I shout.

"For your cheek. And for destruction of school property. Ten points from Slytherin."

I was outraged. I had said nothing, the stupid cow. Not to mention I had scheduled a Quidditch practice for the evening. Don't make me look like an even bigger fool against Potter than I already do, Professor.

"But I booked the pitch for this evening! Madam Hooch----"

"Well, you'll just have to take it up with her, now won't you, boy?" she says, glaring at me and bustling away with the plant.

Fucker.

~~~

It's always because of Potter I'm stuck in detention. Always. Fuck that little sod. Fucking Professor Sprout has set me to repotting every, single fucking plant in Greenhouse Six, the furthest damn room from the castle. I'm filthy, grimy, and seriously ticked off. She could have gotten the bloody houseelves to clean this sodding mess, but no, she wants ME to do it.

Screw that.

The smell in here is sharp and tart, leaving me with a lemony taste in my mouth. The aftertaste of Potter's mouth that lingered on my father's pipe.

And I'm already aroused as it is.

A soft moan escapes from my lips as the thought of Potter's mouth on mine pervades my mind as surely as the scent of a fresh-trimmed verge bleeds into the air.

I want him.

I moan again and grind my hips against the edge of the table, resisting the urge to wank off. I laugh quietly over the irony of it all; I used to come into Greenhouse Six on my prefect rounds to rat out those spending "quality time" with themselves. And now here I am, on the verge of committing that same transgression.

The door slides open and I look up, hastily overfilling a pot in my attempt to hide my actions.

There is no one there.

I frown, certain that I could feel someone else's presence in Greenhouse Six with me. I look about the room, there is nothing there that shouldn't be.

I exhale and start to clean up. Blast these plants with their provocatively shaped stems. The Tumesca Turgia is may possibly be the worst. I run my hand along the smooth shaft of the plant, its girth too eerily similar to another shaft on the human body.

I feel my breath getting shallower and I grip the plant a little harder than I intend to. It gives out a little gasp.

I let go and the plant moans slightly.

But wait, Tumesca Turgias don't have vocal cords.

Tentatively, I reach out to touch it and there's another muffled moan.

No, it's definitely not the plant.

I wait a few more moments before there's another guttural moan, accompanied by quiet "uh-uh"s.

Unwillingly, I feel myself harden. The utterances are quiet, unlike mine, which tend to get loud. I press against the edge of the table to take an edge off the pressure building in my crotch.

The soft pants sound like Potter during a Quidditch match, all intense concentration and focused drive. I wonder if that's how he'll be in bed: pent-up passion.

Fuck.

I can't stand anymore, not with the wood that I'm sporting.

I sit on the floor, trying my best not to come in my pants.

Think of unattractive things. Think of Crabbe and Goyle's table manners. Think of Pansy without her makeup. Kittens. Shoelaces. Cookie cutters. Anything.

Wait a fucking minute.

There's a ripple in the air. By the leg of Sprout's desk, near the ground.

The soft moans increase in frequency as the ripple pulses faster.

Suddenly, as if my subconscious is taking over my brain, Potter materialises before my eyes.

At least, his head and torso do.

What the fuck?

His head is thrown back against Sprout's desk, the moonlight glinting off his specs, hiding his eyes from view. His lips are swollen and softly parted, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down in time with his shallow breaths. His shoulders are rigid and the muscles in his arm jerk back and forth. His hand disappears into thin air, and although I can't see the rest of him, I can take a damn good guess at what he's doing.

What bizarre, twisted fantasy is this? I'd always dreamed of Potter with me, naked as the day he was born, not jerking off by himself, half-invisible.

It's sheer torture, like a peep show, seeing just enough of him to get me up, yet not enough to grant me release.

I watch him, unable to turn away. I always wanted to know what he would be like when he came. Was he quiet? Loud? Explosive? Shuddering?

I dig my nails into my palm to prevent myself from shattering into a million horny pieces. I long to touch myself, but I fear that if I move, the illusion would be gone.

So I sit there, hard as a rock, watching as Potter inched closer and closer to climax. I bite my lip to prevent myself from screaming with pain, with lust, and with desire.

Suddenly, he tenses and wracking shudders overcome his wiry frame.

"M...ffff..."

I strain to hear the name he utters at the height of his ride, but he comes so silently that I can't make it out. Suddenly, his body goes limp and he slides down, lying on the floor, flushed and breathing hard.

My own chest is heaving.

He was so fucking beautiful. Like Adonis, with the tension of a strung bow that was nigh unbearable, until the arrow is sprung.

Presently, he rises and in a swirl of air, he disappears leaving me breathless and unsatisfied.

The click of the door brings me to my senses and I realise that it must now be past eleven.

But I don't move.

Instead, I draw my father's pipe and light it, ridding myself of the bitter green taste left in my mouth.