a/n:I was considering writing this immediately after I finished Red Moon Dreaming, and Kaykos's review just convinced me further. But it took me so long. Not because it was hard to write, but I just kept stopping and leaving it for later. But alas, it is finally here! The D/G companion piece! You may want to read Red Moon Dreaming first - but it's not required, especially since it's R/Lu, and it may not be your piece o' cake.
Fruits de mer is French for 'seafood'.
disclaimer: Well, JKR said all the credit should go to me. But she sort of created the characters. But the Piabble is all mine, I tell you. All mine.
"You don't want me," a strangely familiar redhead protested.
"Course I do," Draco Malfoy insisted, his hands sliding around her soft waist and pulling her body hard into his, "don't you feel it?" He asked, his voice dropping low.
She let out a kind of whimper and her soft body melted against his hard, angular one and she let out a low moan. "He won't approve," she hissed, as Draco spun her around and tossed her onto the large, white bed.
"Who?" He murmured, half interested as he concentrated on pulling her knickers out from under her skirt.
"You know who…"
"Voldemort?" He teased, and she flinched, and then froze.
"I hadn't thought about him…." She confessed, and wouldn't let Draco make love to her.
Draco woke from his dream and calmly flipped over onto his other side, chasing after the images of a heavenly woman who wouldn't have a bit of a shag.
No one refuses Draco Malfoy, he thought dully, closing his eyes.
They were in the thick of it now, in a lovely bed. Everything was hot and wet and cold at the same time, and they moved to a fast rhythm that followed no rules. It was a staccato, beating in their hearts at an irregular meter and an invisible tug of their souls.
She was so smooth, so soft, so supple. Freckles littered only her face and arms, except for one gathering of the them in the small of her back. He noticed such amazing things about her, now.
"Draco -" She cried out, her voice hoarse.
"What?" He asked, concentrating.
"Faster, harder, aaaaieee!!!" A loud, masculine voice mocked. "No, no, it's more of a growl - Graaauuuugh!" A deeper, heavier accented one responded.
"You make it sound like she's a troll!" Blaise Zabini exclaimed, looking at Vincent Crabbe strangely.
"Might as well have been, it was Millicent…" Crabbe said, and chortled at his own joke.
Blaise rolled his dark eyes. "You're not much better, mate," he quipped, standing.
Draco parted his bed curtains and looked at them angrily. "Is it customary for daft gits like you to conduct loud conversation right next to my bed, or is it a special occasion?"
"Special occasion," Blaise snapped back, always ready with a sharp insult, "because said bed was hosting a wet dream."
Draco rolled his eyes, though his neck turned a slight pink. "Closer to anything than you've experienced, Zabini."
"Perhaps I, but Crabbe here was just telling me about the lovely tryst he had with Millicent Bulstrode." Blaise said, mock punching Crabbe in the arm. "Way to go, ol' buddy, ol' pal."
Draco flung back his sheets and slid out of bed. "I really don't need any of that mental imagery, thanks." He began to collect his bath amenities and a change of clothes.
"What imagery? Oh, you wouldn't mean that of Millicent and Crabbe writhing in a mass of Slytherin sheets, shrieking and panting and sweat-"
The door slammed and Draco had left the dormitory, headed for the prefect's bathroom in his bathrobe.
He didn't know who he'd been dreaming about, he reasoned. No, you could never know when it was a good dream. If it was a good dream, there was lots of sex, but it was faceless, nameless, no identity to have to worry about facing in the morning. That was what made it good, after all. The fact that there was no tag, no strings added, just pure passion in your mind without the embarrassing ramifications that knowing who you were shagging in your dreams could have.
So if he didn't think about her, about how bloody familiar she'd looked, he wouldn't know, and the dream would be good. It would be better than good, it would be the best bloody dream he'd ever had in his life.
He gave the password and slipped into the prefect's bathroom. The large bathtub met him and he filled it to the rim, before disrobing and slipping in. The water was warm and cleansing, no bubbles, no scents, just pure, clear water which washed away any doubt. In this case, he knew, it wasn't really doubt, as it was more of the opposite - a fact that he knew who he'd been shagging and he just didn't want to face it.
Draco frowned, as he ducked his head under the water to wet his hair. Think how horrid it could be if he ended up remembering - facing Ginny Weasley in the Great Hall and knowing he had dreamt of her legs wrapped about his waist and his lips locked onto her white hot skin.
He stopped his thoughts quite abruptly. He knew. Oh, he knew, he'd known it all along, that horrible, nasty knowledge. Ginny fucking Weasley, parading about in his dreams. God only knew how she'd gotten herself in them.
That entire family was enough of a virus to the real world - always reproducing and adding another Weasley to the wizarding population. The last thing they needed to do was start appearing in his dreams. As Draco rubbed some of his shampoo between his palms, he fervently prayed that none of the other Weasley children would be appearing next.
Draco next rinsed, conditioned, rinsed, and repeated the process. Twice. Usually one repeat was good enough, but now he felt a certain filth clung to his skin.
Only a little bit of skin, revealed by a few missing blouse buttons. But there it was, her skin, pale and freckled in the moonlight. He kissed it, and she clung to him.
They were sitting in a gondola. Dobby the house elf was rowing the long, narrow boat down the canal, even wearing a striped shirt.
"I've loved you a very long time," he heard himself whispering, "from before I was born."
"Rubbish," Ginny said, swatting his arm. "You're in it for the sex."
"And what wonderful sex it is," he said, and he felt his lips curl into a wicked grin.
He suckled at her neck again and he wondered why it was she tasted like soap.
Soap, filling his mouth. Draco sat up abruptly, spitting out the foul taste, and looking around in a panic. Not another one. He was glad that he was still alone, it wouldn't be the best thing to be found asleep in the bathtub. Of course, it wasn't a good idea to fall asleep in a bath anyways - he figured it was better to be found asleep rather than drowned.
He reluctantly got out of the large bathtub and started to dry himself off with a plush towel.
These dreams were too frequent, he thought to himself, far too many in such a short amount of time. He briefly toyed with the idea that perhaps it was an elaborate plot hatched by Potter and Weasel, to try and mess with his mind. But Saint Potter and that wretched Weasley weren't smart enough to come up with something that could torment him this much. And he very much doubted that the Weasel would agree to give him dreams about Ginny. What was he doing calling her Ginny, anyways? She was a Weasel. Weasley, Weasel, ragamuffin, lovesick for Potter-Draco wrinkled his nose at that thought. How she could see anything in that speccy prat was beyond comprehension.
She deserved to like someone better, he thought idly, as he dressed and headed back to the dormitory. He dropped his things off in his room and then started for the Great Hall. She deserved somebody better, someone with more taste - whose hair wouldn't clash with hers when it mixed on the pillow, someone who at least acknowledged her existence as something more than Ron Weasley's darling little virgin sister. Draco stopped.
This was getting out of hand. He turned around and started off for Snape's office. If there was anyone who would know what kind of horrible curse had been placed upon him, it would be Snape.
And anyways, who did he think was better for her? Himself? He had to be kidding himself. Either that or he had eaten something strange for supper. Granted, his hair didn't clash with hers, he knew she existed - and he definitely knew she existed as more than a pure younger sibling of Weasley, thanks to his recent dreams. It was all those dreams that were causing this. These were those ramifications he had been dreading earlier.
Wretched things, these consequences.
He rapped at the door three times, and waited for a response.
Snape opened the door, and looked down his long nose at Draco. "Mr. Malfoy," he greeted him coolly, opening the door wider so that he could come in. "What can I assist you with, this morning?"
"I've been having these dreams," Draco started, flopping into a chair and spinning around idly. "Dreams about a girl I shouldn't be having dreams about, and there've been three, in a row, just from last night and this very morning."
"Three girls or just three dreams?" Snape asked boredly, shuffling some papers on his desk.
"Dreams. Same girl."
"What girl?" Snape countered, and Draco shot him a fierce glare.
"None of your business, of course." He said, playing patterns on the armrest. "It doesn't matter, all that matters is that I've had three dreams, already."
Snape quirked an eyebrow, looking at his student suspiciously. "It wouldn't happen to be a Gryffindor, would it?"
Draco said absolutely nothing, staring him down icily.
"That's what I thought." Snape said, smiling dryly. "I understand why you would be worried - I wouldn't want to be dreaming about a muggleborn either-"
"I'm not dreaming about Mudblood Granger!" Draco said, sitting up in his seat very suddenly. "Good God, have you gone mad?"
"You implied by your silence that it was a Gryffindor and I naturally assumed…" Snape stopped, and tilted his head up, keeping a steely gaze on Draco. "If it is not Miss Granger who plagues your dreams," he said, "the only other option that would bring so much… fluster… is a certain Miss Weasley."
Draco felt his neck turn pink, and it spread to his nose. "Fine, fine it's her! But that's hardly the point. I want to know why I'm having these dreams and why so many!"
Snape coughed and hid a smile. "You may be having these dreams purely out of lust, Mr. Malfoy. You may just happen to find Miss Weasley… attractive."
Draco sneered. "If it was mere lust, Professor, I wouldn't have had it so many times in one day."
"Perhaps you're right," Snape said, raising his eyebrows, "I'll look into it and get back to you with some… helpful advice later today. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
Draco shook his head and left, feeling slightly humiliated, and very disgusted with himself. At least he knew he could trust that Snape wouldn't blab it all over school. If there was anyone who Draco would choose to entrust a dangerous secret to - it was Snape.
And this was certainly very dangerous.
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- Vanilla