Exhale

Author's Note:Something of a prequel to 'Talking In Circles'. But to understand this story you should read (and review!) Talking In Circles at some point in time.








Inhale.





I’ve done my research.


I’ve done my research on how to determine my insanity level.


So far the outcome is not very good.


Muggle doctors have presented the idea that writing things down “will further help

people sort out problems plaguing their minds.”


Granted I don’t hold Muggles in high regard but since they don’t have a madman trying

to wipe them out I figure


‘I may as well give it a shot.’


So I do.


As said,


A Problem.



Inhale.



Because besides the last 88 words,


and these next 29 letters


I can only write about You.


And when I’m not writing about You,


I’m writing about my lack of sanity,


Or my mindless capacity for insanity.


Now.


Surely one must assumes that anyone with half a brain could see the questions about

You.


Or us.


Or me with you.


Or me thinking about you.


But


No.


They don’t.





Inhale.





Not to say I have ever given Them reason to want to question my…er…questions.


But none the less, you would think someone would develop some sort of curiosity as to

why,


I, The Prince of Slytherin, cannot pay attention in Potions.


Alas, if there is any


Curiosity development


No one has voiced it.





Inhale.





Well there is one person.


And of course because


Fate is ‘a right pain in the arse’


(screw fickle.)


You


Of all people,


Ask.


“Are you alright Draco?”


My pants tighten as my first name spills from your lips,


But


I just cast a sidelong glance at you from across the table


The Room of Requirement


Has so kindly presented to us.





Inhale.





“Fine Harry.”


Out of politeness,


(and to watch you lips move melodically against themselves.)


“And you?”


A frown settles just blown your dark fringe of unruly hair,


Suppression of the urge to ruffle your midnight hair over takes my consciousness.


I miss your response.


(Not the wet swipe of your tongue across your mouth.)


“Pardon?”


I ask.


Your frown deepens.


I punch myself in the face.


In my mind’s eye anyway.


“Are you sure you’re alright?”


I nod.


You don’t seem convinced.


Smart You.


Dumb me.


Keep my cool.


I feel like I've run ten miles and I haven’t even shifted my foot an inch.


Composurecomposurecomposurecomposure





Inhale.





As I said.


A problem.


You


Are not the problem.


My fascination with You


And everything You do


Is the problem.


And the whole insanity thing.


So here I am again.


Writing.


Contemplating.


Questioning.


And I hear the door open.


And you step through.





Exhale.