Six Sentence Sunday

Hello from beautiful Blocksville, population me. Writer’s block has hit, hopefully only mildly. Very little new stuff that i can share but i did vow to keep posting snips so here we are. It’s a little saucy Legilimency action between Harry and Draco, in which Draco distracts Harry away from the memories Draco doesn’t want him to see. Unedited.Tagging everyone who wants to do this!

“Fine. You want to see what I’m hiding? Here,” Malfoy whispered almost gleefully, and Harry wasn’t sure if the words were spoken aloud or just in his mind, because he was surrounded by Malfoy’s thoughts now, the mental link between them pulsing open wide, a flood.

Harry himself was there, looking tired and worried in Lucius’s study, then disappearing under the sweep of the invisibility cloak, just a recent memory, and then more, older ones these times but Harry remembered them vividly—himself on a broom, flying low over the eaves of the Grimmauld roof, laughing down at Malfoy who was lying back on the rough tarred surface under the casement windows, so high up, both of them drunk, they must have been crazy. Harry drinking tea, hands meeting around the cup, eyes lost to thought as steam rose, Padfoot running in. Harry again, this time in school, a split lip, blood on the front of his torn shirt, looking furious about something.

“What are you doing?” he whispered to Malfoy.

“You were the one who went snooping through my memories,” Malfoy said, sneering, and then they started up again, times that Harry didn’t even remember but that he knew must be from before, because he looked so young and so stupidly happy and hopeful.

Harry with a wand, practicing something over and over, sparks filling the air of the blue drawing room.

Remus, a fresh unhealed wound under his left eye, arms tight around Harry’s neck, whispering something into his ear while Sirius rubbed Harry’s lower back in circles, and along with that a feeling of wistful jealousy that Harry realised was Malfoy’s.

Harry on the old horsehair couch at one end of the library in Grimmauld Place, waving a wine glass as he talked, face so bright and interested and alive.

And then the memory began to shiver a bit, Harry’s young unlined face and shorter curls shifting into something different, making him look more like he did now but with something not quite right about it. He looked… handsomer, he thought, eyes a brighter green than he knew they were, the flush of stubble making him look dashing rather than unkempt, a glossy sheen to his long hair.

“Malfoy…” he began, but then the version of himself in Malfoy’s mind smiled, not the sweet interested smile of the earlier vision, but something altogether different, his teeth catching on the wine-reddened curve of his lower lip, something promising and dark and vulnerable in it. He lay back against the arm of the couch, and now the background had faded into an indefinable nothingness, and it was just this image of Harry with his head back, throat bared, back arching just a little before he reached down to the button of his jeans and flicked it open carelessly with one thumb.