Snogging with the Enemy

There was a stitch in his side he was doing his best to ignore but which kept sending sharp, jagged pains with every step, like someone had driven a knife into his body and was twisting it inside him. His throat was raw, and felt like sandpaper; he almost couldn’t remember was moisture was. Oh, wait, yes, he could, from the salty, stinging sweat that ran into his eyes and blurred his vision, which in itself presented its own dangers.

Draco Malfoy was running through the Forbidden Forest. No one was chasing him; no one was fleeing from him. He was running, Slytherin only knew why, for the exercise.

Or…

He resolutely pushed those thoughts out of his head. The Muggles said there was something called a “runner’s high”.

*Damned if I’m feeling it.*

The Forest itself was safe enough, safer than it had been during most of Draco’s schooldays. The spiders were either dead or fled, and the centaurs were keeping the truce. Anything else that was lurking in here that could be dangerous could bloody well come; Draco was in a mood to hit something.

*Stop. Thinking. About. That.*

He rounded a bend and almost stopped short. There was another runner coming toward him—a bloke. He was shirtless, wearing only long sweats and a pair of trainers. The sweat in Draco’s eyes made it hard to make out who the other was, but he was running toward Draco, so another few seconds…

Circe’s tits. It was the Weasel. Draco’s own personal Weasel.

Weasley looked surprised to see Draco here; he slowed his hard pace to a mere jog. Draco did the same. This was the first time he’d ever seen the Weasel without a shirt, and Draco had to admit he was enjoying the view. Muscles on top of muscles, just like Goyle, but nicely chiseled in a way Goyle could only dream of. Broad shoulders, powerful chest and arms, flat stomach, no hair to block the view……who knew?

They eyed each other warily as they passed; fortunately the path was wide enough so that neither had to alter his stride to avoid the other. As he resumed his run, Draco could feel the Weasel’s eyes on him.

*Hope he likes what he sees*. Draco smirked; he was wearing a tight pair of shorts that he knew showed off his arse to perfection. *And with all the running I’ve been putting in, he damned well better like what he sees!*

Draco stopped suddenly, puzzled. *Now why should I care if the Weasel thinks I’m hot?*

He couldn’t come up with a reason. But suddenly, he realized that he did care.

A lot.

Draco began to run again. Even harder than before.