Title: A Proper Place for All Things
Pairings: One-sided Draco/Harry, imagined Ron/Harry
Warnings: (Imagined) gay sex, bad words, jealousy, denial
Summary: "Ron Weasley's big, broad hand on Harry Potter's slender back makes Draco grip his butter-knife like he wants to stab something. Someone. Ron Weasley." One-sided D/H. Bottom!Harry.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.
Ron Weasley's big, broad hand on Harry Potter's slender back makes Draco grip his butter-knife like he wants to stab something. Someone. Ron Weasley.
Draco doesn't like the casual way that Weasley touches Potter.
He doesn't like the little unremarked-upon intimacies of their knees brushing under tables, or the way their hands sometimes bump together when they walk.
He doesn't like the way they share this exasperated look when Granger is lecturing them, or the way they smile together over secret jokes—those you-should-have-been-there moments that Draco does not know about, and probably never will.
He especially doesn't like what Weasley's doing this morning—leaning over and whispering something into the shell of Potter's ear, his hand spread out like a starfish on the other boy's back…staying there a little longer than it needs to be (not that it ever needed to be there to begin with!) after his message is complete, and Harry has turned to repeat it to the Mudblood beside him.
It's not right. It's not right! Draco shouldn't have to see this first thing in the morning. It makes his stomach churn, and puts him right off the rest of his breakfast.
It's sick, really, seeing Weasley all over Potter like that. He's a blood traitor, a filthy, good-for-nothing pauper, that's what, and he shouldn't be touching Potter like—like—he shouldn't be touching Potter like that. Potter shouldn't allow it.
Why hadn't somebody noticed it yet, and stopped it? Even Potter deserved better than a Weasley.
They didn't even look good together, Draco thought.
Weasley was too tall and loud and orange, with all those terrible freckles, and Potter was tiny, tiny—he looked ridiculous next to him, he was so tiny—and quiet, too, most of the time, and those huge green eyes of his would clash horribly with Weasley's insufferable hair.
It would be an abomination, frankly, to let Weasley's ugly freckled flesh touch Potter's soft, unblemished skin—it would be a desecration to let Weasley fuck that gorgeous, tiny body; to have the whole slim stretch of him laid out and blushing, all for someone like that.
It was disgusting, disgusting. Draco couldn't bear to think about it.
Draco had absolutely no attraction to Potter, personally, but, on a purely aesthetic level, he recognized that he would look far better with Potter than Weasley ever would.
Draco was tall, too, but he wasn't gangly, and he certainly had no freckles to speak of—and he was graceful, too: he'd know how to move with Potter; he'd know just the right way to touch him, and to kiss him. And to fuck him.
They'd be anything but ridiculous.
On a totally abstract level—totally visual, totally conceptual—he and Potter would look good together, Draco admitted.
Hell, they'd look more than just good, he knew—they'd look amazing. A painter couldn't have contrasted them better if he'd tried.
Draco's white-gold hair (calm, composed) against the blue-black of Potter's (wild, disoriented); the emerald of Draco's robes against Potter's scarlet (so fundamentally incompatible, but, oh, so right); Draco's long, lean-strong body against Potter's slightness (yeah, Potter's lightness helps him on the Pitch, but would be no good if Draco held him against the wall and just stole some hot, hard kisses from the debauched red of Potter's mouth, the way Potter stole the Snitch from him every. fucking. time)—they were all extremes, and they were beautiful.
Every one of Draco's features was negatively matched by Potter's own, and that boldness worked with them—the brash and colorful way they'd fit together was breathtaking.
Physically, they'd be perfect for one another. There was no question of it.
Draco was willing to bet that Potter would fit exactly in his arms, and that Potter's arse, stretched out around his cock, would accommodate him just so.
He'd bet that Potter's chin would fit on his shoulder as if constructed for it, and that Potter's thighs—his thinly-muscled thighs, which Draco is only thinking about for the sake of argument, thank-you-very-much—would already know to mould themselves precisely around his hips.
Potter would fit with Draco in a way he'd never fit with Weasley, and Weasley had to understand that, and, also, had to get his hand the fuck off Potter's back before Draco went over there and did it for him. Preferably in a way that would make him howl.
When Ron Weasley finally moves his hand away from Potter's back, the design on the handle of Draco's butter-knife has been etched deeply, in reverse, into the palm of Draco's hand.
Draco doesn't think too much about it, though, and that's probably for the best.