Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters and I will not be earning income from using these materials. I do, however, own the storyline and any original characters. Thank you.

A/N - This is just a little dabble I wrote for raeraemae-xoxo, a very good friend of mine who needs a little cheering up. I hope this bit of fluff can do it for her. Also, as a big of a disclaimer for me, while I know the Harry Potter world, it's not a fandom I usually write in, so please excuse any OOC-ness. I tried. :)

To Rae - you are an awesomely amazing person who always deserves to be happy. I hope that what you find below can put a little smile on your face. Love you hun.


Bathroom Breaks

~For Rae~

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He hissed through his teeth when the cool, searing water reached the wound that creased through his eyebrow, mingling with the weeping red into a muddied pink across his cheek.

Bullocks.

What the hell had come over him?

He was a Malfoy for Christ sake, made for words, not fists. It had always been the only reason he kept Goyle and Crabb around; he knew as well as every other Malfoy that brawn to match their brains always came in handy.

But this time, he had been alone. The halls of their esteemed school were empty, footsteps echoing off the cold stone as he raced back to the Slytherin dorm, anxious to be alone, when bits of red, bright and garish in the sunlight streaming into the courtyard, tugged at the peripherals of his vision.

Weasley.

His steps slowed, half-curious, mocking words lingering on the tip of his tongue, waiting to fall from his patented sneer. Instead, he was stopped in his tracks, hovering in the shadows, watching her calm, stony face as she sat, book in hand, mind obviously elsewhere.

The sun cascaded across her back, highlighting strands of her trademark locks, darkening the freckles splattered across her thin nose and round cheeks. The light lit a halo around her small form.

He was going insane. Fucking half-wit, what the hell was wrong with him? These rogue thoughts, sifting through his brain like poison, had been the reason for his absence from the seasonal, school-wide trip to Hogsmeade which had turned the hallways into a veritable crypt of shadows and silence.

For months now, he hadn't been able to get her out of his head.

He'd rather have joined in the some kind of jolly, festive drinking.

But he was there, paralyzed, happy to stay in the shadows and keep his imperfect thoughts to himself, when the halo faded at the sound of another's voice. A male voice.

Potter …?

No. Not this time.

An irrelevant fifth year, whose rough hands on her shoulder sent a shock of red-hot rage through his muddled brain.

And now?

Draco Malfoy stood in the boys room, dabbling blood from his face.

Brilliant.

A thin creak echoed in the empty, wide room, stilling his arm. Her thin, lithe form leaned against the wall, straight hair hanging around her shoulders, dark auburn in the dim light; her eyes, weary and unsure despite their brilliant, sparkling blue hue. Her eyes found his in the mirror.

"What do you want, Weasley?"

She pursed her lips, the edge of them twitching up momentarily, her book tucked under her arm, silent. Obviously unwilling to answer.

Scowling, Draco continued to dab at the wound, jerking at the faucet handle and shoving the damp hand towel beneath the stream.

Her small hand wrapped around his forearm, halting him in his tracks and sending a shock he loved to hate streaming through his nervous system.

"Stop. You're just going to make it worse." Her voice was soft, pitched low, and he swallowed as she pulled the wet cloth from his lax fingers. Twisting on the warm water, she soaked it through and wrung it out, reaching up to pull long, blonde bangs from his forehead.

Her touch was gentle, soft and smooth with long strokes, wiping the blood away from the open wound, leaving Draco's eyes to do nothing but wander.

Two petal pink lips hinged open, a small 'o' of concentration framed against white-pale skin, which was dotted with small, unevenly brown dots. A long, thin strand of red hair was hung on the corner of her mouth, itching at the side of his consciousness.

His hand darted up without thought, brushing the fluttery pieces from their attached position and skimming the surface of her check in the process. The small redhead's hand stilled.

Bloody fucking hell.

"I don't think I told you yet, but thank you." The words were breathy, warm air lingering on the side of his face.

"Please, don't thank me. In fact, don't mention it." She paused, glanced at him. "Ever."

The corner of her mouth twitched again, that cute little nuance which wriggled its way into his permanent memory.

"There." She tossed the towel into the sink and stepped back barely an inch. "Either way, you didn't have to do it, so, thank you. Even if you don't want to hear it."

He watched her, eyes fixed as she slid her book back underneath her arm, gaze flickering over him from the corner of her vision. For the first time in his life, he was silent, mentally begging for her to stay and leave, unwilling to torment himself or her any longer.

So it was with a flicker of unrecognizable shock that his mind processed her soft, small, warm lips on his, innocently chaste and yet so much more. Her breath hitched against him and his eyes slid shut, tasting the bits of her he managed to catch through the closed lips, one hand clenched against the rim of the sink, the other balled into a firm fist which reached out to hover lightly above her hip.

She was sunshine and bright, red heat, the taste of cheerfulness and a childlike splendor washing through him for a few moments before she was gone, stealing her light and carrying it with her, out of the cold, grey room and leaving Draco bathed in dim shadows, unclenching one fist and running it through his white-blonde hair.

Fucking hell.

Draco Malfoy had found his poison.

Draco Malfoy was screwed beyond belief.