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The Art of Roasting Marshmallows

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“Those Muggles are complete nutters,” Draco said to himself. His nose wrinkled as he examined the blackened marshmallow from each side. He brought the offending confection closer to his face and gave a tentative sniff.

“You were holding it too close to the fire.”

The familiar voice came from behind him. Potter.

Bugger.

Draco had scanned the area twice before creeping out of his tent. The last thing he’d wanted was to be discovered roasting marshmallows like some Hufflepuff. Especially by Potter.

Potter sat down next to him on the log, and he picked up a discarded branch from the ground.

“Shouldn’t you be asleep with the other Gryffindors?”

Potter pushed two marshmallows onto the tip of his stick. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

Draco watched as Potter positioned the marshmallows a couple of inches above the flames.

Only the crackling of the fire and an owl hooting in the trees broke the silence over the next few minutes. As Draco stared at the sky, he wished he wasn’t so keenly aware of how close their thighs were on the log. The warmth radiating from Potter’s body was worse than that of the fire.

“Here,” said Potter.

“What--?” It took Draco a moment to remember that they were roasting marshmallows. “Oh.”

He reached out and pulled one of the marshmallows off the stick. Instead of eating it, Draco watched the other boy. Potter’s eyes were closed behind those ridiculous round spectacles as he chewed.

Draco looked away and popped his own marshmallow into his mouth. It was warm and gooey and sickly sweet. He kind of liked it.

“Do you want another?” Potter asked.

“Sure.”

Whilst Harry stuck two more marshmallows onto his stick, Draco scanned the tents all around them. He would hate to be seen toasting marshmallows with Potter in the middle of the night. Not because he cared what anyone thought, but because he didn’t want to suffer the questions and rumours that would surely follow. So far, he’d done well keeping his head down this eighth year at Hogwarts.

Potter followed his gaze and grinned. “What, you don’t want to be seen with me?”

“Not especially.”

“You’re probably the only one.”

The cocky remark sounded like it was meant to get a rise out of Draco, and he refused to take the bait.

Draco waited not-so-patiently until Potter offered him another golden, toasted marshmallow. It melted in his mouth. “Mmm.”

This time, it was Potter watching him. Draco could feel those green eyes on his face.

“I bet you’re also the only one who would want me to kiss you right now.”

“That I can assure you of.”

Next thing Draco knew, Potter’s lips, sticky with marshmallow goo, were pressing against his own. He drew back, but Potter followed.

Draco wasn’t sure what possessed him to do it, but he gave in and parted his lips. It must have been the taste of marshmallow on the other boy’s tongue. A tongue that slid so slowly against his own that it started a stirring in his groin. Draco stopped trying to move away and pulled Potter closer. The kiss grew more insistent, steadily raising the temperature of Draco’s blood until Potter pulled back and looked into Draco’s eyes.

“What was that, Potter?”

“You said you wanted it.”

“No,” Draco protested. “I said--” He stopped; something wasn’t right.

Potter grinned, white teeth flashing in the light of the fire. “I said you were probably the only one who wanted me to kiss you, and you said I could be sure of that.”

Draco huffed and looked up at the sky.

“Want another?” Potter asked.

“Yeah.”

Draco hoped they weren’t talking about marshmallows.

 

The End