A Different Kind of Pale

Harry knows that Draco Malfoy is an untrustworthy companion. Silver blonde hair and an uneven grin may make his heart beat faster but guarantee nothing at all in terms of kindness or honor. He would prefer Malfoy to bear his cruelty as a badge of scar and acne, reddened sores and split ends. His eyes should be small, piglike to display meanness of spirit, instead of catlike and shining green with long pale lashes. The delicate, full pink lips should be thin and dry, cracked and grey. Instead of smooth graceful limbs there should appear twisted and awkward arms and legs that in their stunted growth show the poison in the boy's soul.

There is something so wrong in the way the slim hips moving before him haunt his senses. Wrong in the way the shadows from the leaves overhead create mesmerizing patterns on that silvery, almost colorless hair and skin. In the way the pale green of spring is distilled by the sun as it passes through young oak leaves and washes Malfoy with color, turning him into a forest creature, a sprite. He should be coarse, thinks Harry. He should be warty and look like a toad, not an elven prince.

As if catching a stray thought, Malfoy turns to look at Harry, cat-eyes smirking a question at him. And though he attempts to school his features into hardened dislike, there is a longing he fears he is unable to hide. The very wrongness of it makes it the more unbearably insistent, compulsive. This urgency comes of the unwelcome status of his lust. Quick, says his treacherous body. Get it out of your system. Act now.

He thinks of Ron, loyal, generous Ron Weasley. Who he thinks maybe is in love with Harry. Sometimes at night Ron cries out in his sleep, and when he says his friend’s name on gasping sighs it’s not hard to understand what Ron might be dreaming. But Ron knows Harry is into girls. Like exotic, limber Cho Chang. Not boys. And it’s mostly true. Except… there is Malfoy, who is so very pretty. Whose delicate elfin features make his throat ache and his breath catch.

And Harry knows he has a weakness for pretty. For pretty girls, and (gazing ahead at the boy he is following) for prettier boys. Maybe it doesn’t really matter so much, boy or girl. Ron Weasley is sturdy, strong, tall, and one day will be handsome. But not pretty. He loves Ron, he always has. But Ron has never featured in sweaty dreams or midnight fantasies. Ron has never made his heart pound. Malfoy has.

Suddenly he is tired of thinking, tired of questioning himself. The babbling, crackling sound of a creek up ahead, and they must be coming to the place that Malfoy promised held a secret he had to know. He can’t help but hope it is a secret about the texture of pale skin, the flavour of a moon-coloured throat.

He works to keep his tone abrupt, just-this-side of hostile."Well, Malfoy? What was so important you were willing to blackmail me into seeing it?"

"I hardly blackmailed you. I merely pointed out that your trip into town yesterday afternoon was likely to be quite upsetting to Professor McGonagle." Though his words are sarcastic, Malfoy’s tone is almost a purr.

Harry shivers at the sound. "Well, what is it anyway? Just get it over with, *Draco*."

The clearing they stand in is full of sunlight and soft green grasses. The rustling of the nearby creek and trilling birdsong are the only sounds that break the silence that falls as Draco Malfoy steps in far too close to Harry. A shift in the nature of time, and the moment extends into hearts, thumping, eyes meeting, forest and moss greens clashing and blending with thrumming, pulse-pounding tension.

Draco Malfoy does not answer in words. Provocatively, lingeringly, he presses his wiry body against Harry’s broader, more muscular form. His tempting pink lips hover inches from Harry’s, and his eyes never waver as they darken and shimmer. The challenge in his tiny smile is something to which Harry cannot fail to respond. He has never been able to ignore Draco’s challenges, he thinks as his mouth presses punishingly, hungrily onto the softer one so temptingly close.

Draco is moaning softly, his lips parting to Harry’s eager pressure and his body pliable in Harry’s arms. He smells like strawberry shampoo and clean musky sweat when Harry gasps for air and buries his face in the soft silvery hair against the slender neck. Harry’s whole being is aching for more and he licks at the tender skin, the sweet salty tang making him hungrier still.

Then they are both pulling at clothing that impedes the contact of skin on skin. Harry shoves Malfoy back roughly to tear the other boy’s robe over his head. Malfoy is clinging and sighing, falling back to lay upon the soft green-clad ground. Harry follows swiftly, loathing the loss of contact. They meet again in a tangle of limbs and mouths, stroking hands and wordless moans.

Suddenly Draco breaks free of Harry’s mouth to look into his eyes, demanding his attention. Harry irritably tries to pull him back into a kiss, but Draco’s hands insistently hold him at bay.

"I-I need to know something, Potter. *Harry*." His darkened eyes narrow intensely.

"Are you sleeping with Weasley?"

Taken aback, Harry pulls away to his knees in confusion. Drifting down, a leaf lands gently in Malfoy’s hair. He looks even more like a forest creature, except for the narrowed eyes and twitching jaw.

"No, I’m not. Why, Draco, what do you mean?"

"I mean I don’t intend to be the other corner of a triangle, Potter." Malfoy’s lips are twisted in an unpleasant smile.

Harry is not pleased with the direction things are going. His hungry body wants more contact, more kisses. Talking is just confusing and seems pointless given the nature of this encounter.

"Ron is my friend. That’s all. He’s…" Harry sits back on his heels, consequences of his current activity beginning to become more apparent. "He’s not going to like *this* one bit. I only hope he will still be my friend… You haven’t exactly done well by him, you know." His tone held regret as well as resignation. "Maybe if you apologized…"

But the pointed face below him is sullen.

"Why should I apologize? Weasley rides on your coattails and he will always have more than his share of.. of everything. I don’t feel sorry for him."

"Ron has plenty of problems, Draco. His family always has to struggle. They can barely afford his school things. You shouldn’t be so hard on him; you’ve never had to go without."

"I’m not sorry. I hate him. Until now, he has always had *you*." Something hard is nakedly revealed in his half-angry, adoring look. Then his green eyes smolder triumphantly into Harry’s. "It doesn’t matter. I’ve got you, now."

And Harry stops.

Because he doesn’t *want* Ron. But he has always loved him. So he stands, and he straightens his clothes. There is a pull that he feels all over his skin, like his cells are trying to detach and remain in the presence of Draco Malfoy wherever he might choose to go. But in the end it is his head that chooses and his heart that understands and so he walks away with a little twist of the lips somewhat similar to a smile. He says nothing. Enough and more than enough has been said already.

All delicate pretty limbs and lips Draco lies spread as a sweet offering on the crushed grasses. The full mouth is frozen into a stunned O and he makes no sound of protest as Harry’s back moves steadily away through the trees, though his hands grasp uselessly at empty warm spring air. Under the leaf-green patterns his silver skin becomes a different kind of pale.

End