You corner him in the corridor between the changerooms and the bright sunlight of the pitch. He's caught on the brink, as you loom menacingly with the extra height he hasn't realised you don't have over him. You back him slowly into the wall.
And kiss him.
That wasn't entirely what you had in mind, was it? Your mouth on his mouth, open already so that his breath puffs against your tongue. His lips move over your name, against your lips, and you press closer to still that, to stop him. Not what you had in mind, this shift of mouths, shaping breath between you. His mouth. His mouth moving.
He's kissing you back.
It might have been unexpected; you really can't tell any more. But did you ever even imagine this? Harry Potter, in the dark, lips pressing against yours. Pressing, shifting, open and his tongue flickers over your top lip.
You give chase, tilting your mouth against his. He's tilting too. There's a click of teeth, but you barely notice because he's in your mouth, curling deep and you can taste him.
Your hand was on the wall next to his shoulder, but it's slipping. On his shoulder now, fingers gripping and thumb stroking in the smallest of circles against thick Quidditch robes. His hand fumbles at your robes, around your stomach, around an area suddenly very interested. The loose fabric tautens and shifts; he's twined fingers into it, is (dragging his teeth lightly over your lip, breathing hard against your cheek) pulling you forward.
It's an unthinkably good idea. You take that step closer to him, pressing his knuckles into your solar plexus, plunging your tongue into his mouth anew.
Your eyes are open. It wouldn't have occurred to you to close them, to deny this, to miss a second of it. You've never imagined it, so you have no idea what he looks like when someone's kissing him.
You're kissing him.
And he looks like shadow and light, halfway between the two, caught here on the brink. All monochromatic. Dark hair, pale skin. Eyelashes fluttering blurred behind world-skewing glass.
(His eyes are closed.)
So now you know.
You could remember this knowledge, this moment, this thing that has happened to you. You could, you should, you will.
But now, you have a match to play
so you start to try to resist. You start to draw back into your own mouth, into yourself.
His mouth is still open when you're separate, and his eyes are still closed. He doesn't make a sound. There's a whispering in your ears, a long way away, like the ocean. His lips are wet and red (and kissed) because you made them that way.
Those lips say your name.
You're already walking away, away from the brink. Into the light that blossoms all around you, dazzling and blinding to your still-open eyes.
The roaring in your ears resolves, clarified by the sun bursting white around you. It becomes the student body, their hoarse shouting, their screaming. They're screaming for Slytherin.
Yes, why not?
They're screaming for you.
"Pay attention. This is the biggest match of the year. We have to win. Which means you have to deal with Gryffindor's sodding seeker."
"Don't worry. I know just what to do to Harry Potter."
Ambush by dee
All stories are works of fan-fiction by Dee. "Fan-fiction" means that she does not own any of the core creative concepts and characters, but she does heap adulation, appreciation and awe upon those people who do hold the intellectual property rights to those concepts and characters. Further, any instances of real people are fictional, and the author does not wish to suggest any truth should be attached to the actions, emotions and words attributed to them in these fictional stories.