That Old Black Magic

He was the temptation you didn’t know you wanted until you’d already been hypnotised by it, only to be led to your doom.

I hated the way that changed your face, that I could see why everyone— I hated you before, and even more, after. For being beautiful, and making me want you.

“Look at how Teddy’s taken to him,” Draco murmured, his dimple gracing his cheek. “Perhaps he’ll be in Slytherin.” Then he glanced up guiltily — at Andromeda, at Harry, a stab of a look that made Harry’s heart clench — and dropped his eyes to Fearful again.

Wanting to wake him, to touch him, wanting more than a lonely wank under the spray of the shower. Wanting more from Draco, and alarmed by how much he wanted, by how aroused he was.

The hours slipped by: seven o’clock, eight, nine. At ten-forty-four, Harry held Malfoy’s bandaged hand in his and murmured, “I’ve been an orphan for twenty years and twelve minutes, and I swear if you turn me into a widower on Halloween too, I’ll follow your pasty arse to hell and make you pay for it.”