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There was a smudge on Potter's cheek, not very far from the left corner of his lips. It wasn't huge, but considering Draco could see it (and he was sitting on the opposite side of the long table), it was too damn big and too damn annoying. And distracting. How was one supposed to study — on a Saturday evening, no less, which was distracting in itself — when a grown-up individual (supposedly), a hero (according to some) and a person who was just generally annoying, smudges or no smudges (the truth most people failed to recognise; though, Draco was not so easily fooled) unashamedly demonstrated his incompetence by failing to successfully use a fucking quill.
And that wasn't all. That wasn't even the worst of it. By the looks of the label on Potter's inkwell, Potter was one of those students. One of those insufferable, impractical, sheep-like students that thought it fine and dandy to buy the entire line of Weasleys' Wizard Whatsits new products of flavoured school supplies, which included, but were not limited to, edible ink, edible quills and edible parchment. ("Nothing worse than being stuck in a boring class with nothing to eat!" the tagline had claimed. Weasleys. Honestly.) The edible products mania had already claimed victims. Only two days ago, Hannah Abbott had suffered a complete breakdown during Transfigurations, tearfully claiming that Ernie Macmillan had eaten her essay. The situation was made even worse when it was discovered she had used strawberry-flavoured ink and cheese-flavoured parchment. The class had to be dismissed because the students were nauseated. And the incident with Neville and his edible cauldron was best left forgotten. Draco shuddered at the memory. One would think the students would have learned their lessons. But here was Potter, happily writing his essay (Potions essay, Draco noted, craning his neck to see the book Potter copied notes from) with — Draco squinted at the inkwell's label — chocolate-flavoured ink.
Chocolate. Draco paused his thoughts and stared at Potter's cheek. There was a chocolate smudge on Potter's skin, right next to his lips. Yes, that was the worst of it. That was most distracting. All Potter had to do was lick it off. He could definitely reach it with his tongue.
Potter's tongue. Draco's thoughts paused themselves this time. Then, they rewound and replayed the hypothetical scenario of Potter licking away the smudge on his cheek with his tongue. In slow motion.
Draco shook his head to clear it. Potter's tongue probably wasn't long enough. More to the point, Draco probably shouldn't have spent his precious study-time contemplating the length and flexibility of Potter's tongue. But then again, it was a Saturday, and it was late, and he was bored, and no one else was around. The only people studying in the library at a time like this were abysmal Potions students who had no girlfriends to distract them (which surprisingly excluded Longbottom and Weasley and included Potter) and repentant Death Eaters, worried about their N.E.W.T.s and their futures (or those who knew they should be worried about their N.E.W.T.s and their futures and even though they weren't, because worrying about such things caused them to suffer an existential crisis, they took care to be seen studying). So, yes, that meant the two of them were alone in the library. Draco's choices were limited: he could stare either at his History of Magic book or at Potter. And, at the moment, Potter annoyed him far more. Well, Potter annoyed him more than anything at any moment. Which was probably the reason Draco stared at him so much.
But there were so many things to be annoyed about when it came to Potter. His hair, for example. It was all over the place. It must have tickled his face and his neck and, really, how could anyone suffer a thing like that on a daily basis? And his clothes. Did Potter absolutely have to pull up his sleeves and loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt? Did he have to do it all the time? And did he have something against shirts that fit his figure? And on top of all that, Potter was so unbearably fidgety. He seemed unable to sit still. He squirmed and ran his hand through his hair; he frowned and bit his bottom lip so much it stuck out inappropriately; it was red and wet and so abused Draco felt sorry for it. He felt so sorry for it, he would have happily —
"Is there a reason you keep staring at me?"
Draco blinked and looked around, unsure whether or not he was imagining things. But Potter looked up, his green eyes narrowed, and Draco realised that, yes, Potter had asked him a question.
Urgh, Draco thought in distraction. And his glasses. He'd forgotten about Potter's ugly glasses. He tended to erase them from his memory when Potter's face appeared in his mind. He wondered if Potter slept with them. Had sex with them on. Had sex in a bed, wearing nothing but them . . .
Potter's eyebrows rose and Draco blinked again. Potter had asked a question and he was waiting for a response. One Draco should provide if he wanted Potter to redirect his attention back to his essay. And he most certainly did. Potter's stare was unsettling.
"You have a smudge on your left cheek," Draco informed him, tone polite and long-suffering.
Potter's hand shot up on reflex, wiping at his left cheek and missing the smudge by barely an inch.
Draco couldn’t resist. "Your other left."
Potter nearly brushed his right cheek but then stopped abruptly to glare at Draco. He scowled and looked down at his essay again.
The smudge was still there.
"Really, Potter. I'm not teasing. It's right above your mouth and . . . well, it just looks embarrassing."
Potter didn't look up. "I don't have a problem with it."
Draco sighed audibly. "Don't be childish. Just wipe it off."
Potter ignored him.
"Lick it off?" It was worth a try. Draco had theories about Potter's tongue, after all, and he wouldn't mind being presented with some actual evidence to support them.
Potter looked at Draco through his fringe. "Mind your own business," he said — rudely — and stabbed his parchment with a quill.
Draco rubbed his temples. Of all petulant fools, why did he have to sit across from this one? It was now a matter of principle. Potter clearly thought Draco was lying; Draco had his honour to save. He picked up his wand and Conjured a small mirror. One Levitation Charm later, it hovered near Potter's head.
"Here, have a look if you don't believe me," Draco said, as Potter blinked at the mirror.
Potter looked at him, seemingly bemused and amused, all at once. "Suppose it makes sense you know how to Conjure pretty little mirrors on the spot. You learned that in our first year? The crib? Is it in your genes?"
"You're easily impressed," Draco snapped and, with his statement, the mirror snapped out of existence. Draco stared at the now empty air regretfully. "Though, really, the fact that you can't Conjure a simple mirror does explain a lot." Draco was pleased to note Potter looked vaguely hurt, or at the very least annoyed. He went back to his essay without a word.
It was a small victory, Draco decided, but not a complete victory. The damn chocolate smudge was still there. And as distracting as ever. More than ever, actually. Now it was mocking Draco with its mere existence.
It was simply unacceptable. Resolved, Draco stood up and strode purposely toward Potter. With a flick of his wand, a handkerchief appeared in his hand. Draco dangled it in front of Potter, who valiantly tried to ignore him but was apparently much too surprised not to lift his head.
"Wipe it," Draco said. Ordered, even.
Potter looked at the handkerchief and then back at Draco, his mouth twitching. The handkerchief in Draco's hand disappeared with a pop.
Draco stared at his hand, perplexed. His Conjuring abilities weren't that terrible. The magic couldn't have worn off so quickly. Twice in a row, too. First the mirror and now the handkerchief. Draco looked at Potter's hands: they were both accounted for and there was no wand in sight, not to mention the fact that Potter looked entirely too smug. Which must have meant Potter could Vanish items with his mind. Which was surprising. And impressive. And curious. Curious in way that made Draco's heart skip a beat and his stomach perform a flip-flop and his blood rush in a very interesting direction.
Draco gathered his wits fairly quickly, if 'fairly quickly' could describe a full minute of shocked silence. "Fine, then," he said, "if you're so . . ." Powerful? Impressive? Strangely compelling to look at? "Eager to show off," he decided. "Then simply wish the smudge on your face to disappear."
Potter pursed his lips — and Merlin was that a compelling sight, too — looking thoughtful. "If there really is a smudge on my cheek, it doesn't bother me, but it clearly caused you to have some sort of fit, so I think I'll keep it." Potter raised an eyebrow as though to ask: "And how will you stop me?"
The fire that erupted in Draco's belly was pure anger. Nothing but anger. The smudge existed, damn it. Potter had no right to doubt him. It existed and it should be erased. Wiped. Licked off. And if Potter wouldn't do it . . .
Draco grabbed the back of Potter's chair and bent forward slowly, deliberately, watching Potter's eyes grow wider. He stuck out his tongue and gave the smudge a firm, wet lick — chocolate, definitely, he concluded. Potter didn't move, he didn't even breathe, and Draco didn't pop out of existence like the mirror and the handkerchief, which meant he'd found a way to get what he wanted. Which meant he should not do things halfway. No ink should be left on Potter's skin. Draco licked Potter again; he licked to the left, to the right, he licked Potter's lips and then licked them again, and then one more time, even though they didn't taste like chocolate at all anymore. Then, he straightened, nodded curtly at Potter's frozen, shocked expression and surprised himself by walking steadily back to his seat. He even managed to sit down and turn a page, as calm as one could be when their heart decided it no longer wished to be constrained by such silly things as ribcages.
Draco was ready to study now. He was ready to stare at the book in front of him for hours. In fact, he could stare at it for the rest of the school year. He might actually do it. The house-elves would bring him food, he'd be warm, if somewhat smelly, but he would never ever have to look up and see other people and their green, green eyes.
A small sound interrupted Draco's furious planning (and he was just about to try to Conjure a tent). It sounded like Potter cleared his throat. He cleared his throat twice.
Three times.
Four.
Damn him.
Draco looked up.
Potter had a quill in his hand, pointy tip poised to his lips. It touched his bottom lip, smudging it with chocolate before it moved to his upper lip and did the same. His eyes still wide, Potter bent over his essay again and scribbled something on the parchment. A faint blush decorated his cheeks.
And then Draco broke the rules of magic and did something that would surely be registered in the history books: he Apparated inside Hogwarts walls. That was the only sensible explanation as to how he had suddenly found himself right next to Potter again, kneeling next to Potter's chair, his hands in Potter's hair, trapping his head between his palms.
But history could wait when there was chocolate on Potter's lips. Draco licked it off carefully, then kissed it away for good measure. Then he conducted a thorough search — with his lips and tongue — to make sure there wasn't any chocolate left on Potter's cheeks, and his jaw and his lips, and his mouth and his tongue; he even checked the tip of Potter's nose and the soft skin of his temples.
When his inspection was complete and Potter's cheeks and lips were reddened and warmed, to Draco's surprise and delight, splatters of chocolate ink appeared on Potter's neck. Potter's green eyes twinkled mischievously behind his glasses (which weren't that ugly, really), and Draco's fingers ran through Potter's hair (which was softer than it looked), and he snuggled his face into the crook of Potter's neck (possible thanks to Potter's loosened tie and undone top button), and then he carefully kissed away every trace of chocolate on Potter's skin, only to have it reappear again.
Between kisses and ragged breaths, Draco decided he might end up living in the library after all, but with Potter and his wandless magic and his quiet moans and breathless pants and his edible chocolate ink. Potter's shirt fell apart and ink appeared on his chest and, as Draco licked his way down to Potter's stomach, he acknowledged — quietly, to himself — that Weasleys' inventions were utterly ingenious.
As was Potter.