You told me you hated me and so I believed you.

You told me I loved you and so I believed you then, too.

You said maybe you loved me back but that love was fleeting and not to be believed in, but I believed in it anyway because I like to piss you off, Potter.

So I told myself he loved me and "maybe" he did. It's hard to tell. If what we have is love, I don't see why so many poets try to grapple with it.

They must be sadists.

Perhaps I'm exaggerating. I'm told I do that a lot. We have nice moments sometimes too, Potter and I. Yet somehow those quiet, soft moments don't matter. The moments that matter are darker, deeper. The moments that matter are covered in emptiness and hollow heart beats. I'd like to say he fills the emptiness, but really he only expands it, makes it more roomy.

He fills each moment with such nothingness that I sometimes wonder if I am dead.

I never believed in destiny or the inevitable. I never believed in anything, really. I don't believe in some eternal safe-haven. I don't believe in Potter.

People make their own choices. That's something I do believe. But I also think that our choices don't really matter, not as much as we tell ourselves they do. They say the beating wings of a butterfly can start a storm on the other side of the world.

What they fail to mention is that in order for that storm to start, the choices of everyone else will have to correspond with the butterfly's choice to beat it's wings. I mean, maybe down the road there were some kids blowing bubbles. And maybe, much further down the road, a gust of wind and some storm clouds decided to make themselves known.

The chance that all the choices will align and become reality is nearly impossible. What if the kids blowing bubbles decided instead to catch fireflies? All the other choices, the butterfly and the storm clouds, those would become obsolete. The butterfly could beat it's wings. Or someone could come along and rip those delicate wings off, crush them into white powder under the bottom of their shoe. It wouldn't really matter either way. I mean, it'd matter to the butterfly, but not to the world. The butterfly is expendable.

I hate thinking like this, hate seeing the mild and worthless value of life. But the fact of the matter is, if you want to make a difference you have to be more than just a butterfly flapping it's wings because that's what it's always done.

People say to themselves, "If I wander around like this and go through all the motions like I always have, eventually everything will be only smiles and butterbeers and Quidditch again. If I just pretend nothing is wrong, nothing will be wrong. And pretty soon the world will right itself once more." They're wrong. Things become abnormal, even under normal circumstances.

Harry Potter doesn't realize that. He likes to try and be normal because he thinks that if he just beats his wings, real soft, nothing will ever change around him. With anyone else this would be true, but not with Harry Potter. Each time he beats his wings, the whole world changes. When Ron Weasley goes off on some long tirade about what a bastard I am, everyone takes it with a grain of salt. However when Potter gives his quiet nod of assent to Weasley's words, suddenly everyone else decides that yes, Draco must be a bastard. And I'm not denying that I am, it's just...If Potter says it's true, it suddenly is true. He has this amazing ability to tell people what's right and wrong without even saying a word. He just sort of looks at you and suddenly the truth is so simple.

And I'm not saying this in a sappy, romantic way. It's just a fact. It's a power over people that Potter has and he doesn't even realize it or act on it, because he's a sodding idiot.

I'm an idiot too, for ever looking into his eyes and seeing the world his way. But at least I'm smarter than other people. At least I know that when Potter decides to truly beat his wings, there's going to be a thunder storm that will rip apart the earth.

And I know that when that thunder storm hits, I'm going to stand by and watch until I drown in the flood. It'll be a pleasant kind of drowning, the sort that makes you unable to think, feel, or even breathe.

~~~

There was a sound like roaring waves, retreating angrily from the shore. Harry recognized it. He had heard this before. He knew the words. He knew the sounds. He knew the green flash of light.

It connected somehow to a primal instinct deep inside of him. Or perhaps not so primal. Humans are born fearing pain, not death, and that was all Avada Kedavra was. Death, in it's simplest form. An easy flick of a switch, turning off life, letting it float peacefully away with the tide.

The instinct the words 'Avada Kedavra' brought out in Harry was an instinct recognizing pain, the fear of loss belonging to a one year old child.

Most witches and wizards Harry's age would not recognize the deadly words that had passed from their opponent's lips. They would hear the sudden rush and, instead of thinking of death, would be reminded of happy summers at the beach, vacations at a lake house, the building of sand castles consisting mostly of lopsided turrets. For a moment they'd think they were hearing the joyful laugh that is issued forth as a child runs from the chasing waves, just out of reach and giggling as the surf rolls out again.

An instant later, the rushing sound had passed and they were dead.

Harry did not have these fond memories. He had never been to the ocean with the Dursleys on summer holidays, or had the surf chase him as a child. He had encountered the words 'Avada Kedavra' multiple times. Those words were the childhood memories left to Harry, not memories of crashing waves. When he saw the spell almost completely formed on Draco's lips, an old and mournful memory of pain jolted Harry out of his reverie.

He dove under one of the desks lining the walls of the classroom. He brought his hands up to shield his face, as if this futile gesture would really help. There was a green flash of light which Harry saw, beyond the darkness of his eyelids which were screwed shut. Then there was silence, for a long, long time.

Malfoy's voice was trembling as it broke through the quiet. "Get out of there, Potter. You're not dead yet or haven't you noticed?"

Harry emerged from the desk, shaking.

"Seems this rat in front of you took the blow instead," said Draco. "You must've frightened it out when you hid from me. Convenient."

Draco picked up the lifeless rat by it's tail and dangled the limp body in front of Harry. It's red eyes were still open, and they seemed to be staring straight at Draco. He continued, unabashed. "Funny how things are always throwing themselves in front of you, Potter. It must feel odd to know you're famous for hiding behind someone else's heroic actions."

"You tried to kill me," Harry said without emotion, dismissing Draco's words. Dust from the floor layered his clothes and skin, and he watched the rat Draco was holding swing in front of his eyes, hypnotized. Draco dropped the rat to the floor again, where it landed with a soft thud.

"I'm not the first. To try to kill you, I mean."

"No, you're not." There was the eerie emptiness within Harry's voice, and for the first time that night Draco felt truly out of his element. Nervously he put his wand away.

"I warned you, Potter," he began, feeling thoroughly uneasy as he broke the second long silence between them. "I told you this was more than a game."

"It still feels like one."

"Well, it isn't one! How daft are you?! I could have killed you, Potter! Isn't that enough to convince you this is more than a bloody game of Chess?"

"Not really. You were planning on this from the start, then? Bringing me here and killing me?"

Draco had not planned it. The thought had never even crossed his mind.

What he had thought would happen was that they would duel and fight and kiss and hurt each other and hate each other, all night long. They would stop when the sun came up.

Draco had been looking forward to that part. He was anxious to see how Harry Potter looked under the first light of dawn.

"Yes," Draco lied. "I meant to kill you."

"But you didn't." Harry's voice was still mostly empty, but Draco thought it also sounded just a bit accusatory.

"Er, true," said Draco, slightly embarrassed. "My deliverance of the spell was rather...slow. So, so sorry for the inconvenience," he added with a smirk that looked more like a grimace. Draco was always slow on the deliverance of this deadly curse. When he practiced the Killing Curse on rodents and passing birds as a child, under the watchful eye of his father, he'd often been admonished for the time it took for the spell to be carried out.

"It's because of the way you say it, Draco," Lucius had told his son with an impatient sigh. "Don't be so hesitant. Say the words with confidence and precision, not with such awkward mumbling, as though you're looking over the edge of a cliff."

Draco had tried to say the words with complete and powerful accuracy this time, but he had obviously failed and given Harry enough time to get out of the way. Draco was not sure if he should be glad about this or not. Remembering the way Harry had shoved him moments earlier, he felt a residue of the anger that had brought him to say 'Avada Kedavra' in the first place.

"You're worse than a Squib," snapped Harry. "You're worse than a Muggle."

"Why?" Draco retorted. "Because I've let you live?"

"No. Because you've tried to kill me and failed."

Draco was not sure what to say.

"I mean," Harry continued, working himself into a rage, "look at yourself! Raised by one of the most powerful wizarding families, at least the way you tell it. Surrounded by darkness all of your life, my self-proclaimed enemy, and yet you don't even know how to kill. You're weak. Who are you trying to fool, with those acts of arrogance you pull on people? You're a little boy, Malfoy."

"Quiet, Potter," was the most brilliant thing Draco could think to say, between his gritted teeth.

"You can't even perform a simple spell."

"I'll have you know that Avada Kedavra is not a simple spell! If it was, wizards would be getting killed all over the place. The Killing Curse is a web of complexities and it's difficult for anyone to master."

"Right. Or maybe it's just difficult for you. Perhaps it's not meant to be used by a spineless, slimy little git who hides in his father's shadow in hope that no one will be able to see through the darkness and find out what he really is."

"Oh?" Draco said, willingly taking the bait. "And what is it that I really am?"

"A coward."

"I'm a coward?" Draco shot back. He took a step closer. "Let's look at you, a boy so caught up in his own legacy that he doesn't even know where it ends and where he begins. A boy who hides behind his status as a celebrity in order to avoid the idea that deep inside he may be something so dark and ruthless that his adoring public would stare wide-eyed, and his loving parents would writhe in their graves, if they knew what their little boy had become. If I'm a coward, Potter, what does that make you?"

"A hero."

Draco sneered. "To who? Sniveling fans who still have nightmares that the Dark Lord will come and steal their puppy? A hero to them, maybe. Not to me."

"You don't count, Malfoy. You will never count."

More silence, so thick that it became hard to breathe.

"It's a difficult spell for anyone to master," Draco said again finally.

"Wanna bet?" Harry replied darkly. He drew his wand.

Draco laughed uneasily. "On you, Potter? You don't become a winner by betting on losers." He smiled confidently and tried to reach for his own wand.

"Accio wand!" cried Harry suddenly, and before Draco could grab it his wand had sped from his pocket into Harry's outstretched hand.

Draco watched in silent shock as the Gryffindor boy began to twirl the two wands in his hand, distinctly mocking Draco's own actions from the afternoon before.

"You're so dead, Potter," Draco seethed.

"I don't think so," Harry said with a smile. "You tried that before, remember? Didn't work out too well. You were too slow."

"I'm gonna kill you," Draco said softly, outraged at being so easily tricked. "I'm going to tie you up and throw you in a dungeon and perform the Cruciatus curse on you until you beg for mercy. I'm going to make you relive every moment of the death of your parents and I'm going to tell you how much they love you until you grow to despise the very concept of love! And then, once I hear you cry out for me to stop, once I hear you plead and beg for a moment of peace, I will kill you, Potter. I'm going to get you. You and your friends and-"

"My little dog too?"

"Shut up!"

"You were too slow before," repeated Harry, ignoring Draco as he threw the wand a short distance into the air and then caught it in his fist. "Do you think you'll be quick enough this time?"

"Huh?"

Very deliberately, Harry let Draco's wand clatter to the floor at his feet. Draco wasted no time in diving for the it.

"Accio wand," said Harry calmly, and in a moment the wand was in his hand and Draco was at his feet, one arm reaching out toward the empty space where his wand had been.

Harry looked down at Draco and Draco looked up at Harry.

"This what you wanted, Potter?" Draco asked, not moving. "To get me on my knees?"

Harry looked at Draco imperiously for a moment. Then his expression turned into one of disgust.

"Get up," he said roughly.

Draco rose to his feet. In a burst of movement Harry's hands were suddenly on Draco's chest and a moment later his body was slammed against the wall.

Panting from the pain of the impact, Draco was not at all surprised to find Harry standing there, pointing a wand at Draco's heart.

"Well, well, well," Draco said, processing the situation with a grin. "Just look at you, Potter. Getting the hang of things, aren't we now?"

"Don't patronize."

"I mean, honestly, I'm surprised. And impressed. Didn't think you had it in y-"

Harry jabbed the wand into Draco's chest. He stared at him with a look that clearly said "Shut up" only with much more deadly flair.

"Okay." Draco's whisper was so breathy that a few strands of silvery-blond hair shivered slightly in the quiet. "Go ahead. Say it."

"What?"

"Don't play dumb. You know you want to. You know the words are itching to leap from your tongue."

"What words?" The last syllable spat.

"Avada Kedavra," Draco said calmly, and Harry flinched. "Don't deny it. I can see it in your eyes. I can see it in the way you twitch with longing when you hear the words strung together. Avada Kedavra," Draco said again. Harry did not twitch, but Draco could see a brief lapse in the boy's guarded expression. He saw a flash of terror, and yes, longing.

"Say it, Potter." Draco's whisper escalated to an unguarded shout. "Say it, dammit! The Pandora's box of curses is just begging to be opened. Go on, experience the power, fulfill your curiosity. You've heard the words said to you. They were said to your parents, and to Cedric as well, I'm sure. Don't stand by watching anymore, gawking as if it's a show. Step up! Test the way the words feel on your lips." Draco glared the challenge at him. "Perhaps the curse won't work. Perhaps it will. Doesn't matter, does it, as long as you get to say the words, point the wand, feel the rush. Don't you want to try, just for a moment, to juggle life and death in your very own hands?"

Harry shook his head in disbelief. He whispered, "God, Malfoy, why are you trying to get me to kill you?"

"Because you want to. And I think you need to do what you want for once, Potter."

"You think I won't?" asked Harry, seeming to grow taller right in front of Draco's eyes. "You think I won't say it? I will!"

"Go on."

The heavy silences must have been queuing up, as another one hit the boys. A silence you could drown in, forget your name in, die in.

"Go on, Harry," Draco said again, almost gently, breaking the silence with a quiver. "Say it. Say 'Avada Ke-"

With a swift movement of his hand, Harry pressed his wand against Draco's throat. Draco couldn't breath. He began to choke.

Harry stood there for a moment, watching him. Then he gave a cry, and dropped the wand.

"You bastard!" he whispered fiercely to Draco. "You almost... I was about to say...What are you doing to me? What have you put in me?!"

"Nothing that wasn't already there."

Their faces were barely separated now, and Draco wondered if Harry would close the distance between them. The look in Draco's eyes was not hopeful, merely expectant.

Harry only turned his back, walked to the window and picked up his broom. He didn't fly away. He simply stood there, looking out at the sky.

Draco stared at the back of Harry's head, watching the moonlight raking through his dark raven hair, creating a brilliant, glowing contrast of color. It was a halo of dreaming white light. A breeze shifted easily through Harry's hair, a mystical whisper that seemed almost supernatural, and Draco suppressed a shiver.

His gaze shifted, briefly, to the dead rat on the floor, then moved back to Harry.

"I can help you do it, you know," Draco finally said softly.

"Do what?" asked Harry, not turning around. Draco was glad. It was easier not looking into Harry's eyes. He knew that if Harry turned around, he would be covered in moonlight, lacquered and shining with a holy gleam. Draco didn't know what he'd do if he had to look at Harry looking like that. Throw up, maybe. That or kiss him.

"The spell," said Draco steadily to Harry's back. "Chances are, you would have failed if you tried it on me tonight."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"You would have. If I couldn't perform it successfully, there's no chance a wizard like you could have."

"You've had practice."

"How would you know?"

"I wouldn't. I'm just assuming. After all, you're a Malfoy."

Draco decided not to remark on this last comment. "You've had practice too, you know. You may never have performed it but you sure have watched it in action. You even fought it off, somehow."

No response.

"My point is," Draco went on, "that I doubt you would have the power to kill me. But...well...Don't you wish you did? Have that power, I mean."

"Keep talking."

"Well, think of how important that spell is. It's unforgivable for a reason. It's powerful. Important. It elevates you above others, makes you better than them."

"I don't want to be better than others."

"Like hell you don't." Draco laughed. "In any case, if you truly think you can fight darkness without being able to kill, you're a fool."

"The power to kill is darkness!" said Harry suddenly, turning around angrily. For a moment, Draco's breath caught in his throat. The moonlight was strong. "If Aurors always stooped to using the Unforgivable Curses, there would be little difference between them and Death Eaters!"

"Perhaps there shouldn't be a difference. Fight fire with fire, I've always said," drawled Draco, silently thankful that he had not thrown up, or kissed Harry. He was even more thankful that he had not done both at once.

"Fight fire with fire," repeated Harry. "Doesn't that just create a bigger flame?"

"Perhaps," Draco said. "But if the heat is strong enough the evil will be wiped out."

"So will the good," Harry pointed out. "It's just complete and utter destruction."

Draco shrugged. "Sometimes that's the better option."

"Sometimes. Maybe." Harry looked at the sky uncertainly. "It's late," he said finally.

"No shit."

"I mean, it really is. We should go back. That is, if you're done dueling." Harry sneered and Draco almost smiled. The sneer looked absolutely foreign on Harry's face. It was so uncharacteristic that it was downright comical.

"Right then. So. I'll be leaving," Harry said when Draco was silent. He began to mount his broom.

"Wait-" began Draco desperately.

"What?" snapped Harry.

Draco looked up at the sky, willing the first rays of the sun to come, despite the fact that sunrise was still hours away. He wanted to see Harry in morning light. Not bathed in morning light, no, but tinted with light shining through the shades of a fading night.

"I'm serious, you know," Draco said. "I really could help you out."

Harry gave him a sidelong glance.

"I mean," Draco went on hurriedly, "I could teach you the curse. I may not be the best at performing the spell, but I'm a good teacher. We could..." He paused. "I don't know, help each other perfect it. We could learn it together."

Harry looked at Draco incredulously.

"You want to be my study buddy for learning a curse that is used to kill people?"

"Well, yes."

Harry was still staring.

"It wouldn't be bad," explained Draco hastily. "I can teach you, Potter. I know you want to learn it. I know you want to say those words and have them mean something."

"You," Harry said, "are a sick bastard. The only reason I would ever want to learn Avada Kedavra is so I could kill you."

Harry mounted his broom and leapt out the window.

"You'll need to learn it sometime!" Draco called after Harry. "These are different, darker times, Potter. Every hero and coward alike will need to know how to wash their hands in blood."

Harry looked back on his broomstick and gave Draco a fleeting glance. Then he sped away out of sight, back to Gryffindor tower.

It was then that the doorknob of the classroom began to twitch.

"Open up!" yelled Filch. "I heard shouting, I did."

Draco groaned. He had run to the library before and did several spells that would ensure no one would find the classroom, and accidentally intrude upon them. The spells seemed to be wearing off, and now all that truly kept Draco from the wrath of Filch was the lock on the door.

Draco grabbed his broom, slipped out the window and dove downwards, reluctantly swerving back into the school on the first story. He then made his way to the dungeons and to the deserted Slytherin common room.

He lounged on one of the luxurious common room chairs and watched the fire. It crackled inanely, roared and spat at Draco before it finally burnt itself down to ashes. Draco then looked at his watch and realized that in a few minutes there would come those first precious rays of dawn. There were no windows in the Slytherin dorm rooms. But there were in Gryffindor Tower, of course.

Draco shut his eyes tight and tried to imagine the morning light striping Harry Potter's face as he slept, creeping it's way along his close eyelids.

However, no matter how hard Draco tried, he could now only picture the boy in a sweeping ghostly moonlight.

~~~

Draco was not one to give up on his desires. He had planned to see Harry Potter in the midst of first-morning light, and he had not. This fact tortured him, it played in his head and consumed his thoughts with the grace of lightning.

The whole duel, in fact, consumed his thoughts. It had felt good to say that deadly curse to Harry Potter, to watch the boy's eyes widen in a mix of fear and exhilaration, to see him dive under a desk with agile, albeit cowardly, grace.

It felt good also to be pinned to the wall by Harry. It felt good to hear Harry offering him something more than just hate. He had offered Draco death. How many others had gotten such an offer from Harry Potter, the innocent golden boy of the Wizarding world?

Draco was sure he was the first. And that felt good too.

"These are different, darker times, Potter. Every hero and coward alike will need to know how to wash their hands in blood."

Draco had said this with rage, with the confidence of a zealot. He had waited, unable to breath, watching...

And then Harry had looked back and stamped quite clearly in his eyes Draco had seen an unmistakable uncertainty.

That felt better than good. That felt wonderful. And it told Draco all he needed to know.

Potter would come to him. When things got dark and Harry got darker, he would come to Draco Malfoy. He had refused Draco's earlier offer to be his teacher in the matter. That hurt. But Harry would change his mind, Draco felt. He had to change his mind. After all, it was quite clear that Harry was starting to itch for space in the mold of a hero that had been so tightly built around him. Harry had doubt in his mind. He had heard the ring of truth in what Draco had told him.

And the ring of truth was enough to make anyone, especially a Gryffindor, break through a mold of steel.

All of this was well and good. It kept Draco entertained in his classes. He liked feeling in control. He liked that he need only wait for the little proverbial string in Potter's mind to snap and then their games could begin again.

Only the string wasn't snapping. A few days later and Harry Potter still had not said a word to Draco.

Then it started.

Draco decided that he needed to see Harry Potter in the light of dawn. He needed to see how Harry did it, how the morning washed away the shadows that had gathered across Harry's body during the night. He had missed his chance before. Potter had flown out the ruddy window. He had left Draco standing there in the dark, had returned to his dorm and slept while the morning crept over him and covered him once more in it's light.

With daylight, Draco's attempt to kill Harry was washed away. With daylight, everything he and Harry had shared the night before was also banished. With daylight, Harry stopped talking to Draco and would only rarely share even a fleeting glance with the Slytherin. How could a few hours alter so much?

How could Harry treat Draco with such complete and utterly beautiful hatred in the night, only to treat him with oblivious indifference in the day? When did this change occur?

It became an obsession.

It didn't take Draco long to formulate a plan for catching Harry under dawn's first gaze. It was a complex and intricate plan, that required trickery, deceit, and the silence of thieves.

Draco was going to hide under Harry's bed.

Okay, so perhaps this plan had a distinct resemblance to a game of Hide and Seek. But it was the first plan that entered Draco's mind and it seemed simple enough. After the dinner of their seventh day that year at Hogwarts, Draco carefully evaded the company of his fellow Slytherins, grabbed his broom, and flew up to Gryffindor tower. The falling dusk cloaked his form from the eyes of others, and he found the sixth year Gryffindor dorm with ease.

Peering in through the open window, Draco breathed a sigh of relief when he found the dorm was still empty.

He stepped into the sixth year dorm room. The lights had been off when he had come before but now they were on. Draco took a good look around.

The room was decorated in a deep red, almost burgundy, as well as brief glimpses flashing gold. The beds were a luxurious red velvet with golden trimmings.

You could tell that people really lived here, and it didn't have the cold, steely coloring of Draco's dorm. It was, on the whole, a place that was warm, comforting, happy.

"God," Draco muttered to himself, "how sickening."

He remembered that Harry's bed was the one nearest the window. Feeling a bit childish, Draco looked around furtively and then crawled under Harry's bed with his broom. A tinted red darkness surrounded him.

It was half an hour before Draco heard someone come in. Neville and Seamus by the sound of it. Dean came in a quarter hour later but it was nearly midnight before Ron and Harry came in, laughter muffled by the red velvet. Draco heard them exchange good nights and then felt the mattress above his head shift with an abrupt change of weight. Draco heard Harry pull the curtains down around him.

Forty five minutes later and soft rhythmic breathing and the occasional snore from Neville was all there was to be heard.

Was this ever boring.

Sighing, Draco eyes slid to a large trunk at the foot of Harry's bed.

It was not properly closed.

And there was so, so much time to kill.

Draco smiled at the trunk. "Well, hello," he whispered sweetly as he withdrew his wand and muttered, "Lumos." He crawled slowly along the floor, careful that his head did not bang against the mattress above him. Tentatively Draco opened the trunk, which creaked. No one woke up however, and Draco beamed. Hopefully he'd find some dirt on Potter. Blackmail. Sweet.

However, rifling through the trunk, Draco could only sigh as he neared the bottom. Robes. More robes. A Quidditch book.

Draco briefly entertained the idea of taking some of Harry's underwear and hanging it up somewhere on public display. However, he eventually dismissed this idea, finding it too cliché for his tastes.

Socks, parchment, bottled ink, quills, sweaters-

Draco's mouth dropped open as all his thoughts were rapidly dismissed as meaningless fancies. He stared blankly at what he held in his hand.

It was an invisibility cloak.

Draco recognized it instantly. His father had searched high and low for such a cloak, looking in museums, on the black market, and yes, even on eBay. He hadn't been able to find the rare item.

But Draco had.

He stared at it for a good moment longer. It was silky and rippled when he touched it, like a disturbed pool of water. It shimmered.

With shaking hands, Draco neatly put away all of the items he had thrown recklessly out of Harry's trunk

Then, taking a deep breath, Draco put the cloak on. He smiled to the dark, then slipped out from under the bed. Drawing one of the curtains aside, Draco felt as if he were no more than a brief rustling breeze. He looked down at the bed. Harry was sleeping on his stomach, head tilted to the side. Draco thought he looked quite young with his glasses off.

He watched Harry breath for a while. Harry was calm, peaceful, unshaken by nightmares. A range of conflicting thoughts flew through Draco's head. Should he kiss him? Take a pillow and suffocate him? Kill him here, with nothing but a few whispers lying dormant on his lips?

Draco did none of these things. Instead, he quietly climbed into the bed next to Harry, who in response stirred slightly in his sleep. Draco waited until Harry's breathing (and his own) became more regular. Then Draco reached out and hesitantly trailed his hand down Harry's bare arm, as if he were learning the texture of something very foreign.

Realizing what he was doing, Draco pulled his hand away hastily as if he had been shocked.

God, Harry was so warm.

Draco could feel his warmth, radiating off the boy in his sleep. Draco's own breathing slowed, his heartbeat began to sound like some distant half-forgotten lullaby. A sense of security and comfort overcame him as he formed his own niche in Harry's bed. He listened to the calm and steady breathing, felt Harry's warmth.

Draco couldn't remember the last time he felt so safe. Perhaps he had never felt such safety in his life.

A very distant voice told him that the next morning he would be appalled that he had been soothed by listening to Potter sleep, would be shocked at his own sentimentality. But that voice didn't matter now. No voice mattered now. The warmth and his own drowsiness overtook Draco and he allowed his eyes to shut.

He dozed for the rest of the night, just teetering over the brink of sleep. His mind was lulled. The hours did not so much fly by as they did float, drifting like clouds which Draco watched from afar, utterly mesmerized.

Finally Draco shook himself and looked down at his watch, only to realize the watch was now invisible. With a large yawn, Draco stretched out like a large cat, casting a glance at Harry to make sure the boy didn't stir. Then he pulled the tasseled cord hanging from the canopy of the bed. Immediately the curtains surrounding the four-poster bed sprang open.

He smiled. Master of time, that was Draco. Outside the window the darkness was weakening, a few stray rays of sunlight scattered shards of night. It would be dawn soon. He had called it. Draco was good at sensing changes in light, even when he was covered in darkness. He remembered how in Malfoy Manor, where night and day always seemed to bleed together unrecognizably, Draco alone had been able to tell the two apart. Perhaps his parents would have been able to tell night and day apart too, if they had cared to try. They hadn't however, and night and day seemed one in the same to them, simply changes in light, lengthening or decreasing shadows in the house. Nothing so simple as night and day could affect the Malfoys, not when they were so well cared for in their tombs of ice.

Draco propped himself up on one elbow and turned, watching Harry. Draco was simply an observer once more, a pair of invisible eyes that took in all and a mind that processed nothing. Even his thoughts, which usually clamored over one another for precedence, were strangely silent as he intently watched the sun creep over Harry.

Brightly cleaned shafts of light slipped in through the window. Draco watched the sunlight tickle Harry's shoulder blades, curve around his neck and finally wash over his face.

It was morning. In a couple hours Harry would awaken. Draco already saw him beginning to stir, emerging into a lighter sleep.

Draco contemplated the change, now that Harry was washed in a dim morning light. He didn't look so different. Same mussed hair. Same lashes scraping his cheeks. What had Draco expected him to be? A different person? Did he think that, like a werewolf, Harry would change form from moonlight to daylight? Draco realized he had become too wrapped up in seeing Harry between daylight and night, had lost the fact that really Harry was always the same person.

Then why did he seem so different? How could Potter so gallantly play hero one moment, only to turn on Draco with such doubt in his eyes come nightfall?

Funny, wasn't it? No one else seemed to see it but Draco. Harry was scared. Harry felt his lack of power in the scheme of things. Harry wanted more. Little Gryffindor could slide so easily into the role of a Slytherin. He had the ambition. Only he denied it, which was why on a shallow surface Harry was a Gryffindor.

Really, thought Draco, the differences between Gryffindors and Slytherin were all in the choices one made. Slytherins were known for being dishonest, but they were truer to themselves than Gryffindors could ever be. What were Gryffindors anyway? Not much. Just Slytherins with self-esteem issues, lost kids who dreamed of honest bravery, who wanted to wield some fabeled sword of truth. Gryffindors were simply Slytherins stuck in their own fantasies of grandeur, always dreaming, never acting.

Slytherins were the ones with real bravery. They jumped on their dreams, did whatever it took to achieve them. Gryffindors were too afraid of their own strength and would never take advantage of their own courage.

Or at least Harry wouldn't. Perhaps he was less aware of the power in him than Draco had originally thought. Or maybe he mistook his power for signs of evil. Git.

The sunlight swathed around Harry's body and Draco, in the cloak, was untouched by it. Again he reached out and touched Harry's back, wondering vaguely if this moment was real. Then he knelt forward and gently kissed the Gryffindor's cheek. His mouth moved and brushed against the corner of Harry's lips. Harry remained fast asleep, so light was Draco's touch.

Then Draco stood up.

"Mind if I borrow this cloak, Potter?" he whispered to the sleeping form. There was no response.

"I'll take that as a yes."

~~~

He was beautiful in any case. Draco could admit that to himself freely as he walked sleepily down to the dungeons, under the invisibility cloak, broomstick in hand. Maybe not in a conventional way. It was more of a...hidden beauty. It sort of crept up on you. Stupid Potter. One day it was obvious that he was scrawny, the next you'd suddenly decide that really he was 'slim and fit'. One day it'd be "Good God, Potter, ever heard of hair gel?", and the next day, in the midst of wanting to kill him, you'd silently be thinking that the wildness of his hair really had a certain appeal.

Draco hated him. He really, really did. He'd hate anyone who made him question his emotions. Emotions should be based on thought, not the other way around. Emotions should not be fickle, they should be firm and steady and go where you want them to and never stray from the path that was set.

And it was Potter who was doing this to him, Potter who had made him spend a night in the Gryffindor dorms, Potter who had skewed and twisted his thoughts like this.

He would pay. Anyone who messed with the emotions of a Malfoy would have to pay, even gits who went blundering around thinking they were saving the world. Draco would have vengeance.

~~~

The next day was just not the right time for vengeance. It was a Wednesday. Wednesdays were not good days for vengeance, Draco had decided.

So he stalked instead.

He loved the feel of the invisibility cloak. It was gorgeous. It had the faint scent of Harry Potter, not a bad scent, just a tickling reminder of fresh cut grass, reminiscent of the Quidditch field on a spring day. Still, it was Harry's scent, and Harry's cloak, and there wasn't much Draco could do about it. No dry-cleaning around for invisibility cloaks. He grew to like the smell anyway, to breath it in. It signified that he was safe, hidden from the blunders of the world.

Draco enjoyed appearing unnoticed. For the first time he realized how enigmatic Potter actually was. Even around Ron, Hermione and his little girlfriend, rarely did Harry express the wide range of thoughts going through his head.

And who was that damned black dog who was always coming to see Potter? Just another Harry Potter mystery. Weren't dogs against school rules? And if so, why did Dumbledore nod indulgently every time the dog was seen? Old fool was growing senile. Draco would have to write to his father as soon as possible, although he guessed that Lucius had more pressing issues on his hands of late. He was lying low, acting as a sort of spy for Voldemort. Or at least that was what Draco assumed. Lucius had told him nothing. "Too much of a security risk," Lucius had explained to his son. "Don't want you getting accosted at Hogwarts for information on the Dark Lord, do we?"

When Draco thought about it, this approach was quite sensible. If anyone tortured Draco for information about his father and Voldemort, Draco would not be able to say a word. If they put a truth spell on him and opened his mind like a book which they prodded, they would find nothing to highlight. Very clever, his father was. Draco admired him.

Voldemort, and the Ministry's constant blunders as the Dark Lord grew more and more powerful, and the deaths, and his father...These issues seemed far away within the invisibility cloak. You became a sort of ghost, a creature of another world, just a visitor to this one.

Draco liked catching Harry in moments of unguarded thought, when he believed himself to be alone.

It shocked him how different the world acted when there was no Draco Malfoy around. Everyone seemed to...well, breath more deeply. Their smiles were less tight, more free. They laughed louder and more good-naturedly. Draco was not sure if he liked it or not. It felt as though he was looking out at existence from eyes that weren't his.

However, underneath it all he was still Draco Malfoy. There was still an undying urge to humiliate and embarrass, and this was an urge very easy to satisfy with Harry around. He seemed to walk right into embarrassing moments, rather cluelessly. Watching