A/N: I can't believe it's almost been two years since i've posted on this story. Where does the time go? But to be honest i told myself when i first started publishing fanfiction that if i wasn't happy with something i wouldn't post it because it isn't worthy. I can only apologise and say i have had major writers block and had no idea where i wanted to go with this. The original summary no longer seems to fit now but hopefully it'll bloom into a rose tinted love story soon.

Reviews are appreciated. Thanks for reading.

Chapter 9

It was raining outside, as often it is when dramatic events take place. Dim shadows flickered to and fro in the dark room, nightmares waiting to come alive in susceptible dreams. But these dark monsters seemed to be having no effect on the angel beside Harry. His eyelids fluttered, the ocean blue eyes rolling restlessly behind and pale ashen, almost ivory, lashes brushing delicately against the soft skin of his cheek. Porcelain velvet stretched just so over high cheekbones, dipping minutely into the valleys below so they were not hollowed like Harry's by poverty but rather defined by sharp angles and athleticism. Rosy lips. Straight, pert nose. Angular, strong jaw and the smooth rise of his Adam's apple, bobbing irregularly and visible only because his head was thrown back to reach a pillow, halo of golden hair on the silky material. The smooth column of his throat was exposed, shamelessly, erotically arcing and practically quivering with the strain.

Two buttons of his crisp white shirt were open, skewed to expose that tiny bit more flawless skin, although it made little difference as the item was sweat soaked and, as a result, translucent, his nipples peeking at the cooling perspiration surrounding them.

Harry dragged his eyes away, snapping his jaw rigidly shut. He had convinced himself that if he looked hard enough, inspected thoroughly enough, every pore, he would find as imperfection. However, this turned out to be an excuse to allow himself to stare slack jawed at a close range for almost an hour because no such impurity was to be found. Draco Malfoy was completely flawless, the result of generations of precisely chosen breeding and primarily magnificent genetics.

Harry managed to catch himself before he tumbled head first into a brooding pit and instead channelled his mind to more proactive habits, mainly scurrying out of the door and away from temptation.

Draco Malfoy was tempted, standing solitary in this marble hall as he was, to bite his lip, a nervous habit he had supposedly broken during childhood. His hand rested on the door handle of the great oak portal before him, thumb running delicately and indecisively over the dark grains of expensive wood.

His parents were, theoretically, on the other side of this door and one thing Draco was absolutely positive of was that they would be rather displeased with his disappearance concerning the previous night. Of course, like the prosperous peacekeeper he was, he had decided to be absent when Harry woke up that morning. Awkward conversations before his inevitable argument with his father were not his idea of a particularly good morning.

The curtains were drawn when he slipped into the room through a small crack between the double doors. The chandelier was flaming above the broad dining table, a dark wood that glowed malevolently under the intense light. His mother sat, pristine and perfect despite the early hour, at the far end of the table, perched on the straight backed dining chair, her skirts flowing over the tasteful, floral pattern of the cushioned seat.

"Your father is displeased, Draco," she murmured, somehow making her whisper resound around the large room. Her dainty fingers picked at the mixed berries on her plate, freshly plucked and still attached to their various stalks. She barely moved as she brought a single raspberry to her lips and slid it between the painted skin.

"Father is often displeased," Draco replied, finally deciding to stop his dithering at the fringes of the room if only for the sake of propriety and choosing to strategically position himself across from her where he would not be forced to look his father in the eye upon his arrival.

"I am displeased, Draco," Narcissa hissed, her eyes slicing up and into his like frozen steel piercing melting butter. Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat, aware that his mind had forgotten in the tense moment of his arrival that his mother could be just as, if not more, cruel than his father, although she often went about her business in a more cunning, subtle way.

His mother's fingers whipped up to silence any protest he may have been about to make, although in reality he felt suitably chastised as if he were a little boy once more, before casually transforming the gesture into a gentle caress that slipped a strand of her ashen hair behind her ear, miraculously managing not to catch her swirling, golden earrings at the same time.

Draco settled for snatching the bowl of fresh fruit that lay between them childishly. He picked at them one by one, sucking nervously on the inside of his cheek. His father was liable to show his anger in a much more potent way that one of his mother's strong silences. He could imagine Lucius' scowl, the way his hands would curl into fists and back to palms, as if he were unsure as to whether he would strike with a punch or a slap.

"You have forced our hand, Draco. For too many years we have put up with your childish antics." Narcissa Malfoy paused significantly, gesturing harshly to a servant hovering nervously at the drinks table. He scuttled forward, his beret wobbling precariously – another victim of his mother's French obsession – refill her glass, an artist thing of sweeps and curves, with orange juice. Draco would bet his right foot it had been squeezed by him personally less than five minutes ago. His mother tested it before flicking him away irritably; a movement that immediately put Draco on full alert. She was usually sterilised about showing her emotion at these times. Or at most times now he thought about it.

"Lucius and I have come to a decision. You will be married within the year." Her glass tapped the table as she replaced it gently, dangerously. Draco felt his heart expanding in his chest and sweat breaking out on his back. She was completely, terrifyingly serious. Simply for something to occupy his hands other than clenching the table until they were white, Draco slipped a slice of sweet-smelling apple into his mouth, vaguely admiring the deep red colour. It stopped him immediately, emotionally, screaming back at her as well as an added bonus. He needed, now more than ever, to prove to her he could handle these types of situations as a mature adult; that he was no longer a child who depended on temper tantrums and favouritism.

"And if I refuse anyone you deem appropriate?" Draco asked with a cocked eyebrow once he had chewed the fruit slice fifteen times, breathing sufficiently deeply to calm him.

"Oh, no, Draco. You misunderstand me." She flitted her hand over her plate before carefully before placing it back in her lap and looking directly up into his face. Draco received the distinct impression of being an unsuspecting antelope prancing before a pack of hunting lionesses. "You have free choice. We will not parade worthy girls before you and allow you to embarrass us any longer, turning your nose up."

"Still, if I refuse?" Draco murmured, challenging, as he leaned forward towards her.

Narcissa smiled and Draco felt a shiver of dread run unpleasantly up his spine in response. "You have a year, my dear, before your father evokes the right to an arranged, forced marriage. We have been far too lenient with you and Astoria Greengrass will make a suitable enough wife."

His mother stood, ignoring the descent of his scowl, and brushed down her pristine skirts. "You will begin courting her in six months under no false pretences. I have assured her father she would benefit from learning of the situation in full. Good day, Draconis." She bowed her head to head to him in a way she knew was flattering in the dim light. "My gardens are calling for me." She turned her back on him fully, a rude dismissal, and glided towards the door where her bereted servant already waited to open it for her.

Hysterical laughter threatened Draco now that he found himself alone. Never in his life had he seen Narcissa Malfoy touch a flower except to smell it.

The last week had been gruelling. Hermione and Ron were becoming more and more of a burden, and although he felt guilty for thinking it that didn't mean it was any less true. Ron's limbs were too ridiculously gangly, resulting in any entwining move Harry instructed them on concluded with the two of them in a heap on the floor, pained and frustrated. Meanwhile, Hermione's attempts at synchronised rhythm were verging on droll and pathetic, not that Harry, the ever loyal friend, would ever tell her in such a crass way.

Initially, staying behind for the full hour to practice his own personal form had been a luxury until he was invited, without fail, to observe the ballroom meetings. At first he had felt awkward, declining with many stuttered apologies. But unfortunately for him Pansy Parkinson turned out to be a force not to be tampered with and he found himself, one day, blocked from the door and bodily plunged into the pillows by minions as she stood by and watched, stretching her forearms across her body innocently.

He wasn't sure where to look that first time. Pansy kept flicking her gaze at him unnervingly, so much so that he felt guilty for…something whenever they made eye contact. Although what he had to be guilty about he had no idea. The other pairs, whirling around each other rhythmically, were graceful and soothing to watch, sometimes so much so that he really did feel at fault when his eyes grew heavy. They were wonderful dancers but just not interesting enough to hold his attention for an extended length of time.

Outside there was the cold and the rain and the cloudy night sky. Inside were the blaring lights and the confusing, distorted mirror images and the melodious music. All very well but again nothing that could sustain his curiosity.

Which left Draco. In his shining black shoes. And his shirt that clung to his torso with the speed if his spins. And his eyes, like crystal sliding everywhere and yet sticking to Pansy all at once. Harry could tell he was completely aware of absolutely everything happening around him. The way he flung his partner carelessly around the room, avoiding everyone, but somehow managed to be precise and careful at the same time.

He was aware he was staring. He knew he shouldn't. Especially when he caught his eye in the mirror while Draco was jigging some complex sideways steps. Harry quickly ripped his gaze away. He spent some precious minutes picking at a stray, sunlight gold thread on a cushion by his knee before he glanced back to find his eyes connecting instantly once more with ice blue glaciers.

Harry told himself that moment, that fresh, fragile connection, meant absolutely nothing and contented himself with lingering for five more minutes before dashing for the door when the music slipped into its next piece, murmuring to Parkinson about some forgotten engagement, which really meant his enforced curfew was fast approaching and two nights slept in the studio was not a good habit to fall into.

It was another week, in which he succumbed to his fate and finally admitted to himself he had grown to like these little nights and by Friday there was no need for an order to latch onto him arm and haul him back in during his escape because when they arrived, jolly laughs and swinging bags following them, he was already waiting for them already sweat soaked and exhausted on the sea of cushions with a cold bottle of water.

In that same week, Hermione had taken up her battle to convince him he needn't put up with his relatives any longer…again. It was a cause she took upon her conscience every few months, obviously never succeeding. And with Ron currently out of the country visiting his brother in Romania with the rest of his family it was the perfect opportunity for her to badger him without any interference from the third member of their close knit group who was, admittedly, a bit of a flaming fire wall of protection for Harry against her persistent nature.

That was how, shortly after building his courage and strength by watching Draco flare to life with high tempo strings and a thrust of his nose into the air with rebellious intent, Harry found himself shifting restlessly on the bare pavement outside a spotless house with an even more spotless lawn labelled clearly in grotesque green paint – which he had painted thank you very much – and waiting for an opportune moment, which on inspection probably didn't exist.

He wasn't sure how Hermione had managed to sand down his endless reserves of stubbornness this time. Perhaps it was the threat to march in there herself to pack his few belongings. He couldn't allow her to see with her own two eyes the way he had lived all his life.

She had offered to share her own bedroom with him in her family's little flat that was barely big enough for them until Ron returned, at which point she would quite happily force him to accept the offer the Weasley's had extended to him many a time of a warm bed in Ron's room.

His plan was to steal through the back door, practically skate through the hall and to his bag before getting the hell out of there before anyone had the time to get off the sofa, let alone catch him. He estimated Dudley would already be in his room doing all manner of unsavoury things, while his aunt and uncle would be watch the latest reality show to hit the screen, tittering and gaffawing at all the horrendous jokes.

It started perfectly, the side gate didn't even screech like normal when he slipped through as if luck was on his side. In fact, the back door remained eerily quiet as well and the pitch black had his nerves flaring up on alert. He felt his heart pumping uncontrollably in his chest and his breathing, though forcefully quiet, was erratic.

He skirted around the kitchen table, wary of the chair legs that could betray him. He had grabbed his belonging the night before and stowed them in his dependable cupboard the night before in his one and only bag. They fit in the satchel with room to spare.

He could see the little brass knob glinting in the reflection of the television's blare. He crept towards it and cracked it open, praying for silence. All was well and he slithered the bag through the small gap.

That was where it went wrong.

He should have known he just wasn't that lucky. He was just swinging the back over his shoulder when there was a voice from the lounge. "Tea, Pentunia?"

Harry was frozen. In his half crouch position he could see his uncle standing. His blood shuddered and stilled in his veins. His vision blurred and his breathing reached hyperventilation.

His uncle didn't see him until he was nearly standing up on him. Then there was a second of pure silence as if that hallway was all that existed.

A shadow curled around his uncle's face, more black than the natural shadows of the dim room. His eyes darkened and his lips twisted into a ghastly snarl, pulling at his moustache and revealing yellowing teeth. Like a ravenous monster. Inhuman and petrifying. More beast than man.

"BOY!"

Thanks again for reading.

Reviews would be lovely

Bella

P.s. Abuse for the amount of time it took me to publish this are understood but not tolerated.