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Harry Potter had slammed bronze hands down on the juddering table – juddering because of him, his furious magic sizzling in the otherwise stark and silent air, if not for his heavy breathing – and directed that green, intense glare at him. Childish of Potter, still experiencing accidental magic. What was the purpose of his wand, in that case?
Potter had descended into a ceaseless tirade, expressing how Draco was nothing short of a scoundrel for not withdrawing from his mind as soon as he encountered constituents of a more delicate nature. How could have Draco done that, though? His inquisition had catapulted, essentially. Would have Potter preferred having Severus as an Occlumency tutor, a man far more ruthless than Draco himself? Not bloody likely, he could assume.
Then, Draco had avowed that Potter could romance him anytime, given how hopeless his now ascertained crush was. He had the primary intentions of this being a quip; as soon as the drawling words made off his lips, however, he found that this was of somewhat truth. Intriguing; Draco didn’t know that his standards were so low. Potter was lucky, and he should’ve acted like he was.
Alternatively, Potter had been all the more riled up. Oh, that blunderbuss must’ve thought he was making a mockery of the circumstances. To each their own, he supposed; Potter would have to figure things out himself, because Draco wasn’t going to chase after him.
Draco hadn’t reckoned so, at least.
Potter had pointed at him, accompanied by a plethora of roaring, colourful insults towards his character. Draco had kept his arms crossed on the tabletop, one hand propping his smug face up. Learning about Potter’s infatuation with him, via Legilimency, had brought forth some sort of high that he wasn’t able to get down from. He had felt overwhelmingly confident, able to conquer anything; even the pure monstrosity that was Potter’s fit of rage due to humiliation.
“I wasn’t kidding,” Draco had decidedly added, to discombobulate Potter all the more — because he had wanted to and he could.
Potter had fleeted with a stomp to his steps, his parting gift being an obscenity or two, as well as the thunderous slam of the door.
To the present, there sat Draco, situated at the table that they regularly practiced Occlumency; a doing of Dumbledore’s, who believed Draco a better tutor than his godfather. And Draco was snickering, because how could he not? Potter fancied him, and he somewhat fancied him in return; Potter was such an idiot, so much so that he’d probably never figure that out.