Pliant Like A Bamboo Essay Summary Writing

Draco Malfoy used to be like the Hawthorn.

He was full of contradictions and his life was always about balance, teetering on a sharp edged knife. One misstep could plunge him into darkness, or perhaps even the light. The balance within him was delicate, as he often fought with himself to maintain equilibrium. Because the consequences of falling? That was not something he could afford.

He was beautiful like the Hawthorn blossoms, but beset with angry thorns. His arsenal of spiteful words and cold façade were always in place, shuttered over the vulnerable young boy within.

But that was before the war.

Now, Draco Malfoy is like a Bamboo.

He is like a bamboo, bending before tumultuous winds. His head is bowed as he walks down the halls of Hogwarts, trying to blend with the shadows of its walls, and silently enduring the furtive glances and cutting whispers thrown at his back. He does not deflect the stinging hexes aimed at him, nor the jinxes that trip him. But carries on, wordlessly and without looking back, until his classmates grow weary of him and finally abandon their daily taunting.

Whereas the proudest of trees stands fast against the harshest of winds, the bamboo simply bends and yields. And at the end of the tempest, all the other trees will be uprooted save for the pliant bamboo. And like the bamboo, Draco vows that he will rise again and again, each time stronger, each time wiser than before.

Harry Potter is like the Holly.

He is a protector, and stubbornly so. He will even protect an old school rival–a former Death Eater– from the harm being done to him by their peers. Then he will go on to lecture them on how this was what Voldemort wanted and how the War was fought so that everyone could be free from this kind of torment.

Draco is at first surprised, but grows angry after. How naively optimistic! Draco thinks, for he knows that he will be bullied now more than ever because of Potter’s interference.

He wants to rage, to protest. He would throttle that insufferable git’s neck for meddling with his quiet routine if not for the fact that it will only get him thrown into Azkaban quicker than a well-placed bat-bogey. He wants to tell Potter that he doesn’t need his heroics and to shove it up that place where the sun doesn’t shine.

But no, he is a bamboo. And it if means enduring Harry Potter’s assertive Gryffindor version of friendship, then so be it. So when Potter asks, “Are you okay, Malfoy? They didn’t hurt you too much, did they?” Draco, frustrated, only grinds his teeth shakes his head.

Potter, holly that he is, takes the damnable friendship further by never leaving Draco’s side and insisting on being called by his first name. And when the next time they chanced upon his aggressors in the halls, it only takes a challenging lift of Potter’s – Harry’s – eyebrow and an answering sneer from Draco to communicate that they should not even bother with the lot. He has never been harassed since then.

Harry is also like the Blackthorn.

He likes to be prepared, to brace himself from ominous events. Constant vigilance—something he’s picked up over the years of evading powerful madmen and unrepentant murderers—has been deeply ingrained into his being. Thus, it comes as no surprise to Draco when Harry announces that he will volunteer to help restore the crumbling castle wards to improve the security in Hogwarts. It is news, however, that Draco has been volunteered for the task as well. He contemplates smacking the Gryffindor upside the head for his presumptuousness.

In the end, to shut the git up, Draco accepts the work. But only because the bloody wanker never lets a day pass without trying to persuade him to join, he reasons. Fun, the miserable bastard says, and educational. The git even has a list of schedules, locations and volunteers for the project. Draco notes that his name always appears next to Harry’s on the list. Curious, that.

Harry works him hard, day after day, spell after spell. They probably do more than twice the combined effort of everyone else and they spend ridiculous amounts of time together at Harry’s insistence. The annoying to-do list has even met its end on more than one occasion at the tip of Draco’s sly wand, but to his horror and surprise, it keeps on reappearing, along with an unrelenting Potter. Even into the depths of winter, they labour together unceasingly. And Draco, pliant like the bamboo, does not so much as protest. Outwardly.

Potter surprises him one December day when he announces that he will stay for the holidays. It is, of course, under the pretence of working at the castle wards while there are few people to disturb.

“Won’t your Weasel get angry?” Draco had asks.

“Of course not,” Harry replies, but the nonchalant way he brushes it off clearly exposes his lie. “Besides, don’t you want company for Christmas?”

Draco snorts in response, but this too he quietly accepts.

Draco does not realize that Harry is like the Elder.

At least not until recently.

He does not see the changes, the transformation that have happened to him…to them. They are no longer the bickering schoolboys who would brawl and tussle at the merest provocations. Nor are they the spirited teens, always at odds and trying to one-up each other, turning everything into competition.

Not until that fateful evening during the Valentine’s Day Ball that Draco feels like he is seeing Harry for the first time. Harry walks into the Great Hall with Madam Malkin’s finest formal set and—oh sweet sylphs and undines, is that leather under his dress robes? He feels his brain sputter as he takes in the boy’s –sorry, the man’s gait– as he strides unhurriedly into the hall. And as the black leather trousers from under Harry’s robes teasingly shows with every stride, the only coherent thing in Draco’s brain is, Is that even legal?

Draco watches as Harry scans the room, trying to look for something. Or likely someone, his brain amends. And when their intent gazes met, Harry purposefully strides toward the corner of the hall where he is quietly hiding away from the crowd. Draco’s eyes grows impossibly wide, embarrassed that he has been caught staring and his heart hammered in his chest because he is coming overto him.

Draco downs the laced pumpkin juice in his hand and grabs another as a charmed tray of drinks came floating by. He is about to grab another when a breathy “there you are” ghosts by his ear. He fights to control the shiver than runs down his spine and, taking a fortifying breath, Draco turns to face Harry.

“Something you need?” Draco inclines his head and raises a practised eyebrow.

“What are you doing hiding here?” Harry asks.

Draco watches as Harry takes in the small space where Draco is trying to hide from the crowd. They are behind one of the large, decorated pillars near the staff table, just beside the door to the spiral staircase that leads to the Trophy Room. If they position themselves right, the pillar will block any curious eye from the head table and they will be visible only from the entrance.

“To hide from the dozens of girls lining up to dance with me,” Draco says dryly.

“Oh.” Harry’s face fell, Draco notes. His heart skips a beat, but he forces himself to maintain his cool.

“Sarcasm, Harry. Learn it.” A small smirk plays at the edge of his lips.

Harry’s eyes visibly brightens again at the remark.

There is an awkward pause as Draco tries not to look with more than open admiration. In fact, the more he tries not to look, the more he imagines the slim fitting robes and the leather underneath.

Draco hears Harry clear his throat and sees the man look at him.

“You, um, look good tonight,” Harry says. Draco is shocked speechless as he sees Harry deliberately eye him up and down appreciatively. Harry apparently takes this as a good sign because the next thing that comes out of his mouth is: “You look good enough to eat, actually.”

Merciful selkies on a rock! Draco thinks incredulously. Is Harry Potter flirting with him?

Harry steps closer, invading Draco personal space and he presses against the pillar. Harry raises one hand to his face, but pauses, as if asking permission to touch. Draco doesn’t say anything — doesn’t need to say anything. His stance is tense and defensive, his lips is pursed as if in annoyance. But the flick of desire in his storm grey eyes betrays him and Harry's answering grin is beyond brilliant.

And finally – oh finally! – because he wants it too, when Harry touches him, he yields.

Draco turns to the hand that is softly caressing his cheek, nuzzling the comforting warmth. Another hand sneaks up to grasp the back of his neck, holding him fast as Harry leans in to slowly… softly… reverently place a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. Then Harry pulls back, cautious, silently asking if this is okay. His eyes are tinged with worry. For all his bravado earlier, Harry is afraid of being rejected.

Draco makes an impatient noise before grabbing the other man, cupping Harry’s face with his own hands. He pulls the man closer, rough and demanding, but when their lips met, it is soft and tender. Harry’s kiss is gentle, almost akin to caressing a rose petal, and Draco kisses back, his lips light and undemanding.

As Harry’s hands slides lower, travelling down Draco’s neck, his shoulders, his arms, and finally down to his waist, his kisses also grows more urgent. And when Harry traces his lips with the tip of his tongue, asking – begging – for access, Draco opens his mouth in willing surrender.

Their kisses becomes more sensuous and their touches becomes bolder. But knowing that the entire school is just behind the pillar in which they are concealed, the two reluctantly breaks away, panting with desire.

“Let’s get out of here,” Harry says hoarsely. And Draco can do nothing but obey.

Because under Harry Potter’s magical touch, Draco Malfoy is pliant like the bamboo.

Pliant like a bamboo essay

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Pliant like a bamboo essay

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