By: ShinigamiForever

Warnings: Definite oddity. Extreme oddity. Get my gist? Oh yeah, and slight slash. Just more hormone induced thoughts.

Disclaimer: They don't belong to me, they belong to J. K. Rowling, etc. etc.

Summary: In which Draco is in the shower, is not quite sane, is in denial, and begins to picture Harry in a tub full of chocolate syrup. But that was just hypothetical, of course. SLASH.


He could just say, "Hello, my name is Draco Malfoy and I am insane." But. But but but. He wasn't really insane, and the part that made him think he was perhaps the least bit insane was that he wasn't quite sure he was Draco Malfoy.


It wasn't that type of not wanting to be the first born, only son, only child kind of insanity. It was the hey, you know, someone's taken control of my body kind of insanity.

If that made any sense at all.

Maybe it wasn't insanity. Maybe it was just nervousness. Yes, anxiety, stress, mental breakdown, have as you will. It was a bad day. Or rather, it was going to be a bad day. He just turned sixteen and he was going to die. If that didn't make a bad day, he didn't know what did.

As all good Slytherins knew, when they turned sixteen, they would go and give themselves up to the Dark Lord. What a birthday celebration. Now, everyone, give up a quart of blood for the vampiric almighty nameless God to drink and be merry. Not really, but nevertheless-

He was going to die.

Or he could just make things easier and drown himself right here and now. In the shower, too. Stick his face into the water spray and breathe in the hot water, down his nostrils, into his lungs. He had heard of people killing themselves that way, but it sounded horrible. Dying by self-induced drowning. What a thought.

To top it off, the water was hot. Boiling hot, with steam rolling off in great big clouds of white. He liked hot showers. They were soothing and distracting and all types of pleasant thoughts occured when in them. For instance: Girls. And aesthetically pleasing boys. Those kinds of thoughts.

He firmly believed there were two types of people and each type of person took baths in different ways. Example? Potter. Potter was definitely a bath and not a shower person. Showers were for people like him who always needed to be on their feet and feeling something. Not people like Potter, who were slow and calm and unnerving, taking their good sweet time, weightless in the water, absolutely-

Now he was thinking about Potter in the shower. That was not one of the many pleasnt things that could happen. What would his father think about that?

Oh, and now he was thinking about his _father_ in the shower, and even though he was not having _those_ kinds of thoughts (that would be plain disturbing. His father, for God's sake!), it was still his father and he was still in the shower. But Potter, who was way too sedated and noble and tranquil and-

Damn it, here he went again. Except they weren't those kinds of thoughts either and-

Oh great, now he was having those kinds of thoughts of Potter in the shower and that, my friends, was NOT GOOD.

Okay. So let's think about Potter in that way. In the shower. While steam rolled everywhere. Draco baby, your mind is wandering. But his mind was already going everywhere at once, why not just here. Potter, who was athletic and light and undeniably beautiful, because who else owned eyes the color of frozen spring leaves and hair as black as-

No more thinking about Potter. That could get dangerous, especially whey he started moving onto Potter's hands, long and square at the fingers with hard calluses on the palms, and when he started to think about scents, the smell of warm broom twigs and summer hay and sweat and orange oil. And then onto the smell on his clothes, his hair, his skin-

Stop. Just stop. Now would be a wonderful time to stop. He was not going to spend his shower thinking about Harry Potter, even if it did bring up thoughts of Potter in a tub full of rich dark chocolate syrup, murmurming "Eat me, Draco, eat me." Even if he did start to think about Potter with maraschino cherries and whip cream.

Where the hell did that come from?

He was going to stop thinking about Potter. Showers for him were a time when he was supposed to think about himself, and while that was slightly narcissistic (Nah, Draco-baby, just egotistical), it was a shower. Who else would you think about? Anybody else would just be, well, wrong (ahem, Potter). Yes, wrong would be the right word. There. Now it wasn't egotistical, it was just not wrong. Not right either, but not wrong.

This might be the last shower he ever had, and he was spending the time trying to support his reasons about fantasizing about Potter. Potter, who whipped through the air with feline grace and feral beauty. Potter, who looked like if he was feeling lusty he could just pin you against the wall and ravish you. Potter, who was way too perfect to be real.

Potter, who was beautiful and unattainable and the last real dream he would have before he died.

His skin was starting to prune in the water. He had spent the last few minutes listening to the voices inside his head shouting out reasons why he was even wasting time thinking about Potter, much less dreaming about him. There was some deep ache that seemed to originate from his groin somewhere, but there was again not a place to think about in the shower when he had just spent up to 15 minutes thinking about Potter. There he went again.

And so he stepped out of the damned shower and ignored the voices in his head, ignored them because it was really the only thing he could do. There was a stack of towels waiting for him, dark green with the Malfoy emblem stitched in silver in one corner.

He began to dry himself slowly.

A/N: eh heh heh heh. Another story spent with me trying to find my style. you've come this far, won't you leave a review?