Idle Flights Of Fantasy
by Sara

At first he tried to pass them off as the results of a twisted subconscious, but eventually he realized that it's not technically dreaming if you're not asleep. They were (he cringed to even think it) fantasies, if one wanted to get technical about it. Daydreams, even, but that sounded so girly. Whatever they were, he kept having them.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly when they had started, but sometime around his fifth year he stopped thinking about how much he disliked Draco Malfoy and started thinking of how it might perhaps be interesting to shag him. After an angsty couple of days in which he attempted to deal with the fact that he had a crush on Malfoy, of all people, he'd quietly come to terms with it and figured that it would go away eventually.

It didn't.

Instead of moving on, he found himself thinking about Malfoy far more frequently than he should have. Unfortunately, Malfoy was still, well, Malfoy, and when Harry recalled his past encounters with him, he just ended up feeling ridiculous. It was completely stupid to have a crush on someone so utterly contemptible, and so Harry preferred to gloss over certain aspects of Malfoy (such as, say, his entire personality) in favor of concentrating on his good points. This inevitably turned somewhat superficial, as Malfoy's good points consisted of his damnably sexy smirk and damnably sexy everything else.

Much to Harry's annoyance, he still couldn't stop thinking about Malfoy, and eventually those thoughts turned into involved scenarios that would certainly never happen but were nonetheless amusing to contemplate. He found himself doing so at the most inappropriate times, lately. A not-especially-stimulating Potions lesson the previous day had ended with him spending a good ten minutes imagining other things to do in the classroom, all of which would certainly earn him detention. In fact, a few of them involved detention, and the things boys could do to each other given time alone and an empty classroom. He'd followed that line of thought for awhile until he was struck with the image of Malfoy on his knees beneath Harry's table, sucking him off while class was in session. The unexpected kinkiness of his own mind had surprised him, and made leaving class uncomfortable. Ron had asked after his health more than once, insisting that he looked flushed but blessedly not seeming to notice Harry's hurried rearranging of his robes.

His imagination had been far more active within the last several weeks than it ever had before; he constantly distracted himself with half-formed fantasies involving Quidditch fights, the showers in the locker room, the edges of the Forbidden Forest, even the Prefect's Bathroom (he had no idea what that was about). A study session at the library had led to idle wondering about invisibility charms and how beneficial they could be in a public setting, which in turn had led to a rather fun scenario involving the restricted section after hours. After awhile, he abandoned the studying in favor of examining a few of the book shelves, which was really an excuse to lean against the shelves behind him, feeling the spines of books against his back and imagining hands gripping his waist as he tried his best to keep quiet.

Madam Pince finally kicked him out, on account of the library closing for the evening. Slowly, he walked back to Gryffindor Tower, letting his mind wander, as it usually did, to Draco.

He hit sixteen and like any Muggle-born teenager was seized by the urge to drive, even though he would never really need to know how. Lately the fantasies seem to involve cars, sleek black convertibles or silvery luxury sports cars with big back seats. He was always driving, the car always had manual transmission, and he was always, always speeding.

His personal favorite began with him racing down a long road through an ever-changing landscape (sometimes endless green hills, sometimes brilliantly lit cities, sometimes empty stretches of sand) with Draco on the passenger side and static on the radio. They were both older, in their twenties, Harry an Auror and Draco a Death Eater, or a spy, or at the very least ambiguously evil enough for Harry to be delivering him to Azkaban. Draco bitched and complained and insulted Harry's lineage, until Harry threatened to drop him off in the middle of nowhere. The sun would set, spurring Harry to drive faster, and prompting Draco to state loudly that he'll get them both killed, to which Harry would reply that it would be a far better fate for both of them. At some uncertain point the atmosphere would change and they would end up parked on the side of the road, shouting at each other. In a moment of recklessness they would kiss. Beneath a sky thick with stars and surrounded by relentless desert heat they would slide against each other, skin on skin, and even when they were naked and desperate it still wouldn't be enough.

The details were always fuzzy about why exactly they had to drive instead of simply Apparating, and Harry never bothered to think beyond the end of the journey. Maybe Harry took him back to the Ministry and watched as he was sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban. Maybe they kept driving, taking turns at the wheel and staying in tiny hotels, fugitives forever in their very own fucked up fairy tale.

That was one of the more involved fantasies he'd taken to appreciating lately. Imagination was becoming less than satisfying, which resulted in insanely complicated scenarios, some of which involved foreign countries and leather pants. He'd long since left behind the easy fantasies that took place in the astronomy tower or an empty hallway, which was why it was such a surprise when Draco appeared as he turned a corner.

Draco leaned against the wall (posed, really) and Harry thought immediately that he'd been here before. An empty corridor late at night, and he happened upon Draco alone, and they exchanged insults and then drew out their wands and hit each other with minor hexes until magic was no longer enough. They would resort to physical violence, exchanging the quick results of spell casting for the somehow infinitely more satisfying feeling of fists hitting flesh, which would naturally lead to rolling around on the floor. Pause, heavy breathing, sudden fevered kissing and so on; it was such an obvious fantasy that Harry had long since tired of it.

"Potter," Draco said, almost civilly, as if this was normal, as if it was really happening. "Out for a walk?"

Harry stared at him. "What are you doing here?"

"Leaning against the wall."

"Right." Harry shook his head. This was really happening, it seemed, and now that he was here he felt like an actor onstage on opening night, who had memorized the script but still somehow forgotten his lines. "Okay."

"Run along now, Potter. I'm sure there's a puppy being kicked somewhere that needs rescuing," Draco said archly.

That was more like it; Harry could work with that. "I don't have to do anything you tell me to, Malfoy," he shot back.

Draco shrugged. "Fine."

"Fine." He stood and stared at Draco, determined to be contrary. After a moment, he realized that as fun as it was to stand there and stare, he couldn't just keep doing it. Even if it was to annoy Draco, he still had to go back to the dorms at some point.

"Potter? Why are you blushing?" Draco asked quietly.

"What?" Harry said, alarmed. He suddenly realized how hot it was down there. That's what it was, of course; he wasn't blushing, it was just really, really hot, so hot, in fact, that he was almost sweating.

"You're blushing." Draco looked amused.

"I am not," said Harry.

Draco stepped forward and laid a hand against Harry's cheek. "You're burning up. You're not going to die, are you Potter? That wouldn't do. I'd hate to lose my favorite adversary."

"I'm fine," Harry said faintly, trying to absorb the fact that he was Draco's favorite anything.

"Am I making you nervous?" Draco asked. He had not moved his hand, and he still looked like he found the whole situation terribly amusing.

"Not at all," Harry said, but the faint tremor in his voice contradicted that.

Draco smiled. His hand slid down to Harry's chest and gently pushed him. Harry's back hit the wall; Draco moved into his personal space. Carefully, Draco placed his hands on the wall on each side of Harry's face. "How about now?" he murmured.

"Yeah, maybe a little." Harry swallowed. This wasn't like he had imagined. Draco was never the aggressor, and Harry certainly never blushed.

Draco smiled predatorily and leaned forward.

In the fantasies, Draco never kissed him first. Harry was always the one in control, and everything was blurred and perfect. This was not perfect. Stones dug into his back and Draco's hands in his hair were a little too rough; the kiss was harder than he expected, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was just different. Better.

Imagination, Harry decided, was overrated anyway.


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