Pride In Love

Have you ever gone outside at midnight on a cool winter night when the only sound is the distant howling of the werewolves and the breeze rustling the branches of the trees? The full moon is like a spotlight on you, an actor on a universal stage, about to perform your own death for an audience of a thousand glittering stars, and your heartbeat seems to echo through the entire galaxy, in tune with the pulsing stars and far-off planets.

I felt the wind brush through my hair, like a cool, gentle hand, soothing my fears, and drying my eyes of tears that I had hoped I would not shed. I closed my eyes and let the ruffled air caress me, holding me in its cold embrace. Up on the very peak of the highest tower in the castle, I felt closer to the wind, the moon, the stars, and the darkness- the ever embracing, ever-filling darkness that had been my only comfort for so long- and so this was where I had chosen to end the tiny glimmer that had been my life, and allow myself to fade into the night sky. My soul would rest among the stars that were watching me right now.

I opened my eyes as I heard the clock in the Great Hall chime twelve; its booming chimes were rumbles in my feet before they were clangs in my ears. Now was the moment to do it.

But I fumbled, not scared, but still putting off the inevitable for one last, quick check to make sure everything had been done, and done properly. Malfoy Pride, my father would have said. I tended to call it "Malfoy Anal-Retentiveness," but that was the kind of remark that got me slapped, so I took to locking them in my mind instead of mumbling them under my breath. Yes, I had brought the glinting jade dagger, an heirloom of our family, which I would plunge into my heart in a moment. Yes, I had sent that final letter to the Owl Post in Hogsmeade, to be delivered to my family - my mother, I should say, because my father would surely know the moment I was dead - informing them of my "tragedy." And that final piece of homework had been turned in to Professor Snape, so that at least my favorite professor wouldn't think I was a total failure.

And, of course, the note had been delivered to the one who hated me the most.

It had been so warm in the Gryffindor house, and not just a warmth from the fire, but a warmth of the colors, a vibrancy and energy from the people and the way they arranged things, you could just feel the excitement and loyalty steaming off the walls. It made me uncomfortable, but at least it didn't allow the ominous echoes in the darkness that my own Slytherin common room did.

I had padded up the stairs, note in one trembling hand and wand in the other, swearing to myself that the first Gryffindor to wake and see me would be Avada Kedavra-ed before they could shout alarm. Of course, they all slept sweetly and quietly, like logs. Logs that are being chainsawed by burly lumberjacks, that is. After accidentally entering the sixth year girl's dorm, (the sight of Lavendar Brown sleeping in her underwear would haunt my mind untill I died), I finally found my way to the boy's dorm and opened the door. It didn't creak; if it had, I would have probably jumped out of my skin. Even the cool dignity of knowing that this was my last night on earth, the quiet grace that had kept me moving through the day, had abandoned me in this foreign place, full of red carpet and good spirits.

I pulled aside a curtain several inches, and scowled at the dark face there. Dean. The next curtain revealed a shock of red hair, and I smirked at my newfound knowledge: Weasley was a thumb-sucker. Tomorrow I'd have to - but there wasn't going to be a tomorrow. For the first time I felt a shock of regret, that I wouldn't be here to infuriate the Weasel anymore. But no matter. That was insignificant in the light of other reasons.

Finally, I found the right bed I was looking for. I cursed my own stupidity, realizing his was the only one with a pair of glasses resting on the bedside table. The curtain came aside with a slight rustle and the Boy Who Lived turned in his sleep. Restless, I thought, wondering if he was having nightmares. A hand had slipped out over the quilted coverlet, and I reached out and pried open his fingers with my own.

My hands were like ice in his and I was concerned for a moment that the sheer change in temperature might wake him. But it didn't and I left my small note, on its official Malfoy Family Stationery, in between two of his fingers. I started to turn away, but turned back, for just a moment, and saw, with quite a shock, that his two emerald eyes were peering up at me.

He blinked sleepily and yawned. "Mum?" he asked in a thick voice.

Frozen for a minute, I finally recovered my thoughts enough to pull the covers up on his shoulders against the cool of the night. "Shh, go back to sleep," I whispered and then, on some strange, deep impulse, stroked his soft black hair back into place. "Everything's all right. Go to sleep." He seemed to accept this and fell back into a deep sleep, my hand still resting gently on his hair. Such innocence on his face, I thought, running a finger along a stray lock that traced a dark line from his right brow to his ear. He couldn't be having nightmares, not now, not and still look so peaceful and happy.

Five minutes later, when I realized I was still sitting by his bed, I jerked my hand back as if it was burned. I still had things to do tonight, I realized. But as I gently shut the door to the dorm, I seriously considered postponing my final night, if only to watch him sleep once more.

Of course, once I was in the cool air, high above the castle, I realized that tonight was the only night. It was, after all, both a full moon, and the tenth anniversary of my discovering I was not a squib, as my mother was inclined to think, but instead the true heir of the Malfoys, born and carefully bred to be the pinnacle of power and pure-blood in the annals of Dark Magic. I, Draco Malfoy, son of Lucius Malfoy, son of Calhoun Malfoy, son of Horace Malfoy, son of Some-Other-Git Malfoy, all the way back to the very first class of Hogwarts, where Maxwell Malfoy had been named the first Slytherin in Hogwarts history, and the first to inherit Salazar's knowledge of the Dark Arts. Thanks to perfect pedigree, (and, if you ask me, reclusiveness and inbreeding,) the Malfoys had become what they are today: prideful, powerful and perfect.

And of course, when the Dark Lord rose again and came to Malfoy Manor to discuss making my father his under-general, second in power only to the repulsive Wormtail and the Dark Lord himself, I had seen power and pride cower in the dirt before the one who called himself the Dark Lord, and perfection be booted across the room when his master's tea was served with too much cream. And I had looked on at my inheritance, my heritage and honor, and I was disgusted. I had inherited nothing but a life of servitude, my heritage one of pain, darkness and hatred and my honor worth nothing in the eyes of even the poorest, unpure wizards. Then I had realized that I was nothing without my honor, that honor had been my entire upbringing, and that now I was an empty person without any claim. I would fade into Malfoy history as just one of the servants of Dark Arts, just one of the many who had upheld their bargain of self-illusionment.

But something perverse in me decided to look for the other option. Was there a way to regain my own honor, even if I had none among the people I thought had mattered? If I could feel dignity was not beneath me once more, would I sacrifice my standing with the "friends" of my father? With the Dark Lord?

It had taken me over a year to decide. The drop of water that burst the dam was my father's demand that I take the test to become a Death Eater. I had dodged the issue until finally I told him, to buy some time, I was afraid I'd fail and wanted more time to prepare.

I had kept the bruise across my face for several weeks. A reminder, my father had told me, that Malfoys are always prepared and never doubt their own ability. Then, with a look that seemed to freeze my heart, he informed me that I would take the test when I arrived home from Hogwarts this year, and that a Malfoy, to quote him, "who damages the family honor with failure is expendable. Children can be replaced."

Such wonderful family togetherness, after all. Thanksgiving is a real scream at my house. The Dark Lord carves a Dark Mark in the turkey and we all say that we're thankful for him and kiss his toes, then watch the Macy's parade on TV and cast dark magic on the announcers, like any normal family does on such a blessed holiday!

The photo albums at my house give small children nightmares.

Of course, when you're out on the tower at midnight, there are no Malfoys, no memories, not even any voices. The only thing that exists is your soul and the night sky and the gentle, inviting wind. There's nothing that makes you different from any other soul and your spirit can glide on the wind past the glowing silver orb and into the open expanses beyond.

I breathed in, deeply, knowing that soon I would take the very last breath, and pulled the knife from my pocket. But, as I looked at its harsh blade with the Malfoy crest engraved in gold, I realized that the dagger wasn't the way I'd choose to die. I didn't want to die as a Malfoy. Besides, the professors would have trouble cleaning the bloodstains off of the stone, and I wanted to disappear without a trace.

I fingered the knife, examining its blade, though in reality I was examining my life. For some reason, on this night, every memory was perfectly clear. Every sight, every sound, every emotion was brought sharply into focus, and I somehow saw my entire life leading up to this one night. Everything I had ever done, everything I had said and felt, all climaxed in this moment. Something warm running across my hands made me realize I had sliced my fingers with the blade. It was only after I noticed that it started to sting, and sting badly. Those lines would have become thin white scars, like spider webs draped across my hands, if I would give them the time. Yet another irretrievable mark of the Malfoy family, and another milestone for tonight. A physical, tangible metaphor of my family and my soul.

I stared at the dagger for a moment, then looked up into the sky. With a sudden movement that surprised even myself, I flung the dagger over the edge of the tower with all my strength, and watched it arc, spinning end over end and reflecting moonlight like a firefly, towards the moon, and for a strange moment I thought that I had stabbed the moon. But no, I saw the knife finally drop from its arch and disappear into the darkness. A gust of wind suddenly picked up, and I realized what I wanted to do. I would disappear into the darkness, the last of the Malfoys, and the only one to discover true pride, true dignity.

Below me in the castle, I heard a door slam, and scowled at the thought that while I was fulfilling my destiny some first-year would be snitching candy from the kitchens. This moment was supposed to be mine, and mine alone. So I waited, just for a few breaths, and then stepped onto the edge of the tower, nearly slipping on the moist stone.

Not that slipping and falling off wouldn't have the desired effect, but if I had wanted an accidental death I would have slipped off during a class, when I would have had an excuse to be on the tower. Right now, I just had this image burned into my brain of diving off of the tower, and letting the wind carry me to my destiny.

I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and found that my legs wouldn't move. It wasn't cowardice, I hoped, but just a momentary loss of nerve.

" 'Once the first step is taken, the deed is halfway done,'" I remembered aloud an old Malfoy axiom. I suspected that, in the true Malfoy tradition, it had been stolen from somewhere. It was ironic, though, that a saying of my family would help me escape my family. "It's just one step," I told myself convincingly. "Just one step, and then I don't have to worry about anything anymore. Just a single step." And I closed my eyes again, and felt the wind blow across my face. It carried peace and courage with it, and I breathed deeply of its strength. Then, I let go, and dove head-first into the darkness.

I heard nothing. It was silence, except for the steady beat of my heart. Even my own thoughts were still, giving me the silence of my last, and final act. The wind rushed past me, helping me onward. And then-

With a yank, my fall was suddenly halted. For a moment I thought I had hit the ground, then opened my eyes to the realization I was actually dangling several hundred feet from the ground. Dangling by one leg, to be specific, and slowly revolving back and forth. With both horror, annoyance and anger, as well as a tiny bit of relief, I tried to maneuver into a position where I could see what had caught me. For a moment I thought I had gotten caught on a treebranch, but no.

The furious face of Harry Potter, hanging half-off his Firebolt with one arm most firmly attached to my right foot, was the sight that met me, his face outlined by the shimmering silver moonlight. I was hanging from his grip, limbs splayed out, shirt coming untucked and falling over my head, and feeling a bit dizzy from seeing the world upside-down.

"So much for finding dignity," I muttered between my teeth.

"What the HELL are you doing?" Potter shouted at me, trying to pull me up. I attempted to kick him in the face, but the attempt set me swinging like a pendulum. Starting to feel airsick, I allowed him to haul me onto the front of his broom.

"What does it look like I'm doing, tapdancing?" I asked him, clambering into side-saddle position as he swung himself back upright. Then, sullenly, "You woke up, didn't you."

His angry eyes were almost frightening, though not nearly as bad as the Dark Lord's evil red slits. "Of course I woke up! And bloody good thing I did! How could you do something like this, something so abysmally stupid!"

"You're spitting, Potter," I told him, and I swear he nearly pushed me off the broom himself. Instead, he looked over the side, and scowled.

"Look, Malfoy, I need you to help me land the broom," he said. Rolling his eyes, "I'm not used to flying with two people."

I bit back a comment along the lines of yes, he probably *did* usually ride his broom by himself, and instead said, "Potter, do you really think I care if you figure out how to land this thing or not?"

He gave me a dangerous look. "Malfoy, you and I are going to talk. We can do it someplace private, or at least safe, or we can do it right here which, if you haven't noticed, is the east side of the castle, right outside the Hufflepuff dorm windows."

Damn, he was right. I glanced over at the windows, and saw the yellow curtains move slightly. It might have been my imagination, but I decided not to risk it. "Fine," I told him, sliding a leg over the handle so that we were both facing the same direction. He put his arms around my waist to grab the front of the handle, and somehow, between my superior flying skills and broom know-how and his . well his grip on the handle, we managed to land the broom safely. I tumbled off into the cold wet grass two feet from the ground, and he had to take a few hopping steps to prevent himself from following my example. Then, as I pulled myself out of the frosted grass and straightened my robes, he grabbed my shoulder and yanked me into a nearby cluster of trees.

"Now, first off, what-" He stopped, and looked down at his broom, then back up at me. "You're bleeding."

"No I'm not," I said, before remembering that yes, I was. "Oh, you mean *bleeding.* Well, yeah, so?" I held out my hands for him to inspect. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, (so like a Gryffindor to carry something as outdated as a handkerchief in his pj's, really,) and wiped the blood from my hands. "You're going to need these bandaged up."

"What, you're the medical expert now?" I asked, but he had already grabbed my elbow and was pulling me towards the castle. "What makes you think," I asked angrily, trying to regain possesion of my arm, "you have the right to drag me around?"

"I saved your life," he stated bluntly, still tugging me relentlessly. Damn him for being so much taller than me.

"You're *ruining* my life," I hissed at him, but he ignored me and I had no choice but to trot after him. "You're not taking me to the Hospital Wing, are you?" I finally asked.

He stopped, and looked me in the eye. "I probably should, so you can get your bloody head examined, but no, I'm not. There's a first-aid kit in the broomshed, and it's warmer in there." Then, looking at me, "Aren't you cold?"

"No, but then again, I'm not the one out here in Batman pajamas," I pointed out.

He looked down at his pajamas and I think he turned a bit red. "They're Dudley's oldest ones, the rest wouldn't fit." Unfortunately, my distraction hadn't worked, and he resumed pulling me across the icy grass. I noticed with interest that he was barefoot, while I was wearing my favorite dragon-hide fancy boots, and that if the cold was even seeping through to chill my toes, Potter must have been much, much more uncomfortable. So I let him lead me to the broomshed, push me inside a little more forcefully than I thought necessary, and close and lock the door.

"Do you have your wand?" he asked me. I handed it over without protest, and he immediately starting lighting the torches that were on both sides of the door. I sat down on a box of extra Quaffles, and watched him.

"Now," he said, turning to me, "why are you out here, at two in the morning, jumping off the Astronomy Tower?"

"It's only a little after midnight," I corrected him.

"But why jump off the tower?"

"Because jumping off the top of Goyle's bunkbed didn't seem like it would have quite the same effect," I snapped. "The real question is, why the hell did you stop me?"

He goggled at me for a moment. "You thought I would wake up, read your stupid note, and then just let you go kill yourself? You actually thought that?"

"No, I didn't think you would wake up, to begin with. And if you had, I thought you'd have rolled over and gone back to sleep, knowing the world was a much better place," I told him. The wind was picking up dead leaves and beating them against the outside walls. I thought for a moment that it was angry that I hadn't died, and wanted me to come out and finish the job. It was trying to pull me back out into the night.

But Harry, now outlined in firelight and mad as a wet hippogriff looked like he was equally eager to pull me back in, so I didn't bother trying.

"You should know I wouldn't be so low, Malfoy. It's a very lucky thing that I had my broom by my bed and thought to grab it, or you'd be a very dead Slytherin prefect right now."

I snorted, and tugged the prefect badge from my robes. "Jealous, Potter? Here, you can be the Slytherin prefect." I held out the badge, and for a minute I thought he was going to strike it from my hand. But instead, he took it gently and slipped it into his pocket. He sat down on another cardboard box opposite me, and gave me a sad, pitying look.

"Why did you try and kill yourself?"

I winced; not once had I actually thought that I was killing myself. I thought about it as recovering my dignity, as the moment where I wouldn't have any more life, but I'd never actually said I was committing suicide. "Why should I tell you?" I didn't look him in the eye, but instead rested my head in my hands, suddenly exhausted. "You hate me."

"You don't hate me," he said slowly. I shrugged, still not looking at him.

The sound of a piece of paper being unfolded made me look up. He had pulled out the note I had left so carefully folded in his hands not even an hour before.

"Potter, it's almost eleven-thirty at night," he read aloud, looking at me as if I would stop him. I shrugged; we both knew what it said, why shouldn't he reread it if he wanted to? After a moment's pause, he kept reading.

*Potter, it's almost eleven-thirty at night as I'm writing this. In less than another hour, I'll be dead, and my body will be on the top of the tallest tower. You're probably the first to know, unless that nosy squib Filch has been poking around again. You may wonder why I'm writing you right now, you of all people. I just wanted you to know that I didn't mean it.

You won't believe me. But I honestly wanted to be your friend, that time just before our first year. I wanted to be your friend, because I saw something in you that made me jealous. Call it honor, call it strength, call it whatever cologne you were wearing that day, it was there. And when you rejected me, I was angry.

It's a Malfoy habit to hold a grudge, you know, and the longer it's held, the better. Forever, if possible.

But I've been reevaluating a lot of things I've learned from being a Malfoy. I've tried to fix as many as I can, and this'll be the last one.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for hurting you, for hating you, for humiliating you. If I had known then what I know now, I wouldn't have done it. You're a good friend. Even if it isn't to me.

Tell Granger and Weasley nothing. I'd rather they hate me. But I didn't want you to, as well. I wanted to make this, of all the things I've done wrong, right again.

Goodbye.

D. Malfoy*

"Of all the people apologizing, you're the last one I would have expected," he said. "But I'm very glad I caught you in time. I was almost too late."

"You weren't late, you were much, much too early!" I said angrily. "All I want to do is to make things right, and all you're doing is trying to ruin everything I've worked for! Do you hate me that much?"

"I don't hate you!" he protested. "I never did hate you, you idiot!"

"Don't be stupid, of course you did."

"I didn't! That's just your stupid pride talking!" I looked up at him, startled by the earnestness in his voice. His eyes locked with mine. "Don't you understand? Hate works the same way as love. If you hate someone, you want them to hate you in return, just like if you love someone, you want them to love you in return." There was a long silence, in which I watched the breath steam out of his mouth and become a tiny burst of fog in the cold room. His eyes were a brilliant green, tiny viridian fires burning behind his glasses.

"I wouldn't know," I said slowly, "what love is like."

He blinked, and looked down at his lap, silent. Finally, after an eternity, he stood up. "Your hands are still bleeding."

I looked down at them. "So they are." I thought it looked kind of nice. Dark, almost black blood against my pale skin, with crimson streaks where I had rubbed up against something. Colorful, at least, and kind of appropriate. If I wasn't dead, at least I was in pain.

But of course, Potter rushed over with the first aid kit to take away that small comfort as well. He squirted some clear stuff over my hands that burned like hell for a minute, but as he carefully rubbed it into the cuts, one hand at a time, the pain went away. I ignored him as he worked; my mind was already back at the tower, once again taking that jump and falling through the silence. It was the pinnacle of my life, and even if Potter stopped me tonight, I would do it again the next, and the next, and the next, until I finally achieved the results I was after. I wanted to die, I wanted to die on the wind, and leave this wretched, shameful world behind me. Why couldn't I die? Why did he stop me? I wanted to fade into the night, lost in its glory, and instead Potter had yanked me back into reality. I wanted death, I wanted sleep, I wanted to stop breathing, stop living!

Tears were running down my face, and I hadn't even realized it. Potter was looking at me with an expression that hurt me worse than hatred and anger: sympathy.

"Don't feel sorry for me," I said, pulling my hands away from him and turning sideways so he couldn't see my face. The cuts on my hands had faded to thin pink scratches, probably thanks to that salve, and wouldn't even scar properly. "If you want to pity me then just go to bed, and let me do what I want."

He stood up, and for a moment I thought he was going to leave. Emotions tumbled through me, both relief and sorrow, happiness and pain, until I wasn't sure whether I wanted him to leave or needed him to stay, to stay and talk to me and tell me that- what? Incoherent thoughts, even I couldn't pick the meaning out of them.

But Potter wasn't leaving, I realized soon, just pacing. I managed to wipe my eyes dry, dreadfully ashamed. So much for pride and dignity. I had made a fool of myself in front of one of my worst enemies.

"I'm not going to let you hurt yourself," he finally said.

"Why the hell not?" I demanded.

"You're worth too much, to your family, and to me," he said, stopping and turning to face me.

I shook my head silently. No, I wasn't. Not now. The only thing I was useful for, alive, was continuing the evil and shame of my family. Then, something he said struck me. "To you?"

He nodded, and I watched him suspiciously. What was that supposed to mean? He thought I was worth something? "You don't know anything about who I am, or what I've done."

"I don't care what you've done," he said, "or who you were. But I know that you're a good person, Malfoy, and you're definitely worth caring about."

I gawked at him for a minute, not believing what he had just said. "Are you saying you actually care about me? Is that why you rushed up to that stupid tower, and dragged me over here?" He just looked at me. "Oh, this is just wonderful," I said sarcastically, "Potter here decides to ruin the only thing I've ever done right because he happens to fancy me." I expected him to react to that, but he didn't. He just folded his arms, still staring at me. I stood up, not enjoying the fact that he was looking down at me. But even standing he was much taller than me, and it just made me angrier. "Would you still care if I was a Death Eater? Huh? A servant of the same Dark Lord that murdered your family and made your life miserable?"

I had hit a target, I could see that plainly in his wounded expression. He looked away from me for a moment, then back up at me.

"Yes," he said, then stepped forward, closing the distance between us. "No matter what you decided to do, I would still care about you. No matter how bad things are, I'm not going to let you die, because I don't like letting people I care about hurt themselves."

I was absolutely frozen. My heart stopped beating, no thoughts ran through my head but an echo of his words. Suddenly my image of falling through the darkness was replaced by one of a distraught Potter dashing through the castle to save me, because he cared about me, and didn't want me to die. Even if I was his worst enemy.

I remembered his comment about hate and love, and realized that it was true. I had hated him, and wanted him to hate me back, wanted to believe he hated me back. But if the opposite was true for him He loved me? He wanted me to love him?

And I had almost thrown that away?

"I died when I read that note," he said in broken, halting tones. "I really couldn't believe that you were gone, that you were dead. And then, I heard the clock, and I realized that maybe I wasn't too late. If I had been a moment later-" He stopped, and just stared at me. "Without ever telling you how I'd seen the change in you, or how I wanted to end our fighting, or anything. And I swear to you," his eyes were burning into mine, "if I had gotten there and been too late to save you, I would have done the same thing you did. There would have been two dead bodies outside of Hogwarts tonight."

I shook my head, hardly believing. "You shouldn't say that, you have so much to be proud of, so much to live for."

"Pride isn't everything," he said almost bitterly. "Pride kept me from telling you how I felt, until I thought it was too late. Pride sent you diving over the tallest tower at midnight, and would have sent me, too. That kind of pride is worthless. I'd rather have love."

Love? Worth more than pride, worth more than even life? It was a new idea to me. I knew that love caused people to do and say stupid things, and act foolishly. But was in possible that love was worth living for, while pride was only worth dying for?

"Like I said, I wouldn't know," I told him, feeling empty and rather sick, not for the first time tonight.

"The only way to know about love," he said, stepping even closer, so that the clouds of our breath intermingled, "is to love. I had to learn that too."

My eyes were locked with his for several heartbeats, so intense, so full of feeling that it made me breathless. But I wasn't ready to swoon into his arms, if that's what you're thinking. I still had a mind, and I was still hell-bent on my own destruction at that point.

"Falling back on cliché'd emotions isn't going to change my mind," I told him, stepping back. He seemed to deflate a little bit as I did. "You're saying you love me, but you still don't understand anything."

"Then tell me," he pleaded.

And so I did. I set forth my reasons, logically, without emotion, and, thankfully, without crying again. I had seen the shame that my family had brought on itself. I didn't want to serve the Dark Lord. If I went home, and refused to be a Death Eater, my father would serve me a death much more painful and drawn-out than jumping off a tower. I couldn't go home and just fall back into the pattern my father had set for me. There was nothing for me at home besides a painful death, and nothing here at Hogwarts for me that could truly change anything. The only dignified thing to do was to commit suicide. He didn't say a word, didn't interrupt, just let me talk.

You'll never know what a comfort it is to just talk to someone who's listening, without having to answer questions or listen to their opinions. It's comforting, it's consoling, and it's also emotionally draining. Finally I just stopped talking, not knowing what else to say.

He seemed a bit stunned by everything I had told him.

"You can go to Dumbledore," he finally suggested, "and he'll protect you."

"How?" I asked bitterly. "Assign a bodyguard to me? The Dark Lord has a very great power of persuasion. I would end up dead anyway. Or maybe he'll lock me away in some room somewhere, or hide me in another country? It wouldn't work, Potter. I'd still end up dead. My father, not to mention the Dark Lord, won't rest until I'm either with them or dead."

He froze for a moment, stopped breathing. Then, with wide eyes and a dawning smile, he looked up at me. "Then why not make them think you're dead?"

"Don't be stupid," I snapped.

"No, really! You could transfigure something to look like your dead body, and then hide away somewhere!"

"The first time I used my wand they would be able to trace me!"

"Then don't use your wand," he said. "You could live like a Muggle-"

"I will not!"

"Then you'll be dead."

"Exactly! Now, if you'll let me leave-" I tried to push past him, which was a rather futile gesture. He caught my shoulders, forcing me in front of him.

"You don't even want to live?"

"I don't have any reason to!" I snapped, angry once more. "Let go!"

"Fine!" He let go of my shoulders so quickly that I stumbled a bit, and stepped out of the way. "Go kill yourself then." I set my jaw and started to storm out the door, when he said, "I knew you were a lot of things, but I never once before thought you were a coward."

"I'm not a coward! I'm braver than you'll ever be!" I rounded on him. "Do you think that it was easy to step off the edge of the tower and know I was going to die? No, it wasn't easy! And now I'll have to do it again, thanks to you. I don't care what you say or feel, but I'm going to do this, and you can't stop me!"

"You're scared, Malfoy. You're scared to try to live."

"Don't try to manipulate me into not doing it," I warned him. "I've already thought this through a million times. There's no way," I pronounced each word carefully, "that I can survive. Absolutely no way. Better to end it tonight, in the way that I choose, instead of at the Dark Lord's hands."

"Go right ahead, then," he said, and waved a hand at the door.

"Fine!" I opened the door, and the wind snuffed out the torches in an instant. I had forgotten how much colder it was outside, but no matter. As I trudged through the grass, I heard Potter close the broomshed door. He didn't follow me.

Ten minutes later I was back on the tower. The moon was behind a cloud, making the dark mass in the sky edged in silver. As I looked up at the sky, trying to see it as I did before, an eye in the dark sky watching me, I realized that something was different this time around. Instead of a motherly figure, the moon was just a circle of light. A fresh gust of wind picked up, and I closed my eyes to feel it lift me up, but all it did was send a chill through me, reminding me that snow would soon fall. The stars were fading, but the light was still bright enough to light up the grass at the base of the tower, the shadow of the castle moving to the west.

I was pissed.

My moment had been ruined. My audience had left the empty theater, spilling popcorn on the way; my wind was getting chillier and more uncomfortable; and my dark coffin was illluminated. But falling into eternal darkness, carried by a motherly wind, and falling onto a plot of grass with a few stubborn dandelions poking up have the same effect.

I stepped onto the stone edge, ready to jump once more.

And stopped. Turned, as I heard a scuffling noise behind me. Potter was there. He'd flown his bloody broom up to the top of the tower, and was watching me. I glanced at him, then at the broom, and frowned. Realizing what was wrong, he tossed the broom aside. If I jumped, he'd never reach it in time. Nodding, I turned back to the edge, and glanced over.

At the base of the tower lay dignity, and pride. But those words sounded empty, even to my heart.

I turned back to glance at Potter again. He was watching me.

*Pride kept me from telling you how I felt, until I thought it was too late. Pride sent you diving over the tallest tower at midnight, and would have sent me, too. *

The cold wind was tugging on the edges of my robes. Potter's warm eyes were on me, watching me, waiting to see what I would do.

*That kind of pride is worthless. *

One step, and I'd be gone. Nobody would stop me.

The edge of the horizen was starting to turn grey. In a while, colors would stain the sky like spilled wine, then melt into a beautiful silver winter day. Something cold hit my ear, and I realized it was just starting to snow. Anything on the ground would soon be erased from view, covered in a blanket of white.

*I'd rather have love. *

Drawing a deep breath, I let myself go.

I took the step.

Backwards.

Immediately a pair of warm arms enveloped me, and a warm breath whispered in my ear that I was making the right choice, that everything would be all right, and that I was going to be safe. I closed my eyes and let his voice run over me like warm water, filling me, holding me, and finally, when I collapsed, not able to even stand anymore, carrying me, holding me close.

I woke up the next morning, confused. Was I dead? Was this heaven? But no, it was the same Slytherin bed I'd woken up in for the past several months, in the same House I'd been in for going on six whole school years. The blanket was pulled up tight over me, and tucked in carefully around me. As I sat up, slowly, reluctantly, the events of last night came flooding back in on me.

I suddenly wished that there was a window in our dungeon dorm, so that I could see the morning light. I had this vision of the sunlight shining silver off of the fresh snow, so real that I almost could feel the cold wetness, and feel the snowflakes brushing my cheeks. I wanted to see this morning, this morning I almost missed.

I heard Blaise sit up in bed, and shrug his blanket off.

"Good morning," he said, pulling his curtain aside.

"It snowed last night," I told him with an odd smile.

"Wonderful," he sighed, "then the Quidditch match with Gryffindor'll be canceled."

I suddenly remembered that yes, today was Saturday, and that the Slytherin/Gryffindor game was indeed supposed to be today. Ravenclaw had backed out of our match, something about their Keeper needing to go to his grandmother's funeral or something, and so we were playing Gryffindor. What would my team have done without their Seeker, I wondered.

"Good," I said, quickly adjusting the blanket so that Blaise couldn't see and wonder why I was still wearing my boots in bed. "I can wait a couple weeks before I have to play against Potter."

He rolled his eyes. "You know, Malfoy, losing to Potter consistently every game is nothing to be proud of."

That sent a jolt through me, as I remembered what Potter had told me the last night. He loved me. He cared about me, enough to save my life.

"I have quite a bit to be proud of, thank you very much," I told him, smirking. "More than you'll ever know."