A Visit from Slytherin (3)

"You aren't?" Draco's brows rose, and the curve of his lips widened. "Then let me ask you—late at night, can you hear mysterious voices? Hissing, like a snake talking?"

Harry's pupils suddenly contracted.

He had seen it.

Draco had seen his reaction. That tiny, involuntary reaction that seemed to answer yes.

Draco's smile widened.

"Heh heh heh..." His laugh was low and heavy, squeezed from deep in his throat, like something being slowly dragged across the ground. "Just as I thought."

He rose from his chair and leaned forward, one hand braced against Harry's headboard and the other resting on the rail at the foot of the bed, caging Harry entirely in his shadow. His face was close—close enough for Harry to see the fine, web-like lines in his gray eyes, close enough to smell the faint scent of cologne mixed with some expensive skincare product.

"Oh, you smell so good." Draco lowered his voice until only Harry could hear it, like a snake flicking its tongue beside his ear. "No wonder all those Gryffindor brutes like you. Weasley clings to you every day, and that Mudblood Granger never leaves your side—what, did you slip them Amortentia?"

The fire in Harry's chest flared again. His right arm shot up, trying to shove Draco in the chest, but Draco reacted faster. He reached out with his left hand and effortlessly pinned Harry's right forearm, his fingers clamped around Harry's wrist like iron pincers. His grip was startlingly strong—far stronger than Harry remembered Draco Malfoy being.

That was not the strength an ordinary second-year should have had.

"Don't make a fuss." Draco raised his right index finger and waved it before Harry's eyes. The finger was so pale it was nearly translucent, its nail neatly trimmed and faintly pink in the sunlight.