The Goddamn Renaissance

He looked so like a painting, Draco mused, leaning back into the cushioning of his regular lounge. Ever since he had returned for his eighth year at Hogwarts Draco had claimed the chaise by the window. Not only did the position provide him the best view over the grounds and the forest, but he could also watch (covertly of course), the goings on of the common room. And Harry Potter. Who, apparently also a creature of habit, had quickly appropriated the high-backed arm-chair by the fire. It was slytherin green, which had afforded Draco some sick sense of perverted joy until he realised how fetching Potter looked in it, how well the upholstery complemented his emerald eyes and pale skin. He had known in that moment that the chair existed only to torment him.

Still. Very much like a painting was Potter. If Draco were an artist the high cheekbones, aristocratic nose, sharp jawline, dark brows, byronic curls and intense stare would have sent him all a swoon, probably he would have needed the smelly salts and whatnot, possibly a fan. As it were, Draco did not need any of those things. Mostly. Draco simply sat. And admired. Covertly. "Ogling pretty Potty again are we?"

Perhaps not so covertly.

Pansy Parkinson laughed as she sat down, splaying her legs ridiculously across his lap. No sense of propriety that one. "No. Of course not." he replied.

Pansy ignored him, "I do so love change. After all, variety is the spice of life, is it not Draco?" she asked sarcastically.

"Shut up." he replied, wittily.

Across the room Potter turned the page of his book; The Complete Poetry of Lord Byron. Even the way he turned pages was attractive, if a little gross. He licked the tip of his finger surreptitiously, pink tongue darting out when he thought no one was looking, then he used that finger to lift and turn the page.

If Draco were a poet he would most likely keep on keeping on with the painting metaphor; Draco would start a movement for Potter, he would dedicate a thousand years to creating a masterpiece if it meant Potter would look at him for just one second. Potter was a masterpiece actually. David had nothing on him, The Birth of Aphrodite became hideous in comparison, even the image of Adele Bloch Bauer, blessed enough to be captured in the most perfect, the most ideal picture of nouveau beauty, paled when stood next to the complete and utter exquisiteness that was Harry Potter. Who, in Draco's good opinion (and Draco prided himself on his good opinions), was the most perfect life-form ever to walk the face of the planet. The whole goddamn renaissance was stuck in his smile. "Merlins bleeding minge-hole, are you even hearing a word I say?" Pansy sounded, put out and pouting.

"What?" he said. "Of course I am" Draco sputtered, zoning back into the conversation.

Pansy threw him her most level gaze, "Alright then Malfoy, what did I say?"

"What? Now Pansy this is silly-"

"Stop talking out of your arse, what did I say?"

Ruthless wench.

"Eerm. It was about..." He struggled for a moment trying to come up with something. "Boys. You were talking about a boy. You're obsessed Darling, but he's not worth your suffering." he finished triumphantly, boys were mostly the only thing Pansy spoke about with him, all her evil plans in regards to other subjects were kept locked away in her devious mind.

Pansy rolled her eyes.

"I'm not the one obsessed Draco. You won't even talk to him. How do you expect anything to happen if you won't just talk to him?"

"He doesn't like me Pansy, and I'm scared he wouldn't even if we did get to know each other." Draco admitted slowly in a rare show of vulnerability.