Pale Winter

It was a weakness and Malfoy knew it. His father had always said he was weak, not like a proper Malfoy, and sometimes Draco wondered if he'd been right. But Malfoy had turned this weakness into a strength, and that meant it wasn't really a weakness anymore, didn't it? He had the upper hand now, whatever Potter thought, whatever Potter had to tell himself to justify his pathetic existence, Draco Malfoy knew that he had the upper hand.

Oh, not that it was entirely safe - that would be rather dull, after all. No, Potter was the same wizard he had always been, dangerous and beautiful like a bird of prey: literally beautiful in flight, noble from a distance, yet he could change tack in an instant, rush in to deliver a death stroke at any moment. But he had Potter well trained by now; the falcon rested on his wrist, returned on his whistle. And if he did become too wild, too independent - well, then, it wasn't as if he didn't have the means to destroy Potter any time he chose. If only he had thought of this years ago. All that effort he had put into besting Potter in Quidditch, in classes, in the hearts of their classmates, and never quite succeeding. And the answer had been here all along, simple, nearly effortless. Maybe that was why he hadn't seen it before; Slytherin tended to celebrate clever and intricate plots. This one was elegant and simple, and all in all, Malfoy thought Slytherin House had not placed enough emphasis on simplicity and elegance. There was less that could go wrong in a simple and elegant plan.

"Malfoy." Potter's quiet greeting interrupted his reverie. Malfoy turned away from the window, looked down at the gaunt, dark-haired boy standing before him. The pale winter sunlight gave his skin an ashen hue. The war was, predictably, taking its toll on the designated Hero; there were shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept in days. And maybe he hadn't. Malfoy felt a flash of annoyance at the world for its neediness.

Malfoy smiled a thin smile, inclined his head, but didn't move from the window seat where he was perched. "Potter."

He waited. Potter was looking past him out the window, as if he had no other interest in the world than seeing the snow-covered field and the forest beyond, but Malfoy knew Potter would break the silence after a few moments, as he always did. He really shouldn't toy with him like this, it wasn't honourable; but then honour had never been his strong suit. He couldn't quite see the point of such a limiting and impractical code of behaviour. Malfoy waited, enjoying the play of pale light over Potter's features. Potter seemed tense these days. Unsurprising, he supposed, in light of the events in the outside world, but regrettable all the same. Tense, and tired.

"I thought you were going into Hogsmeade today, Malfoy. Change your mind?" Potter looked straight at Malfoy as he asked this, a smile, maybe a bit of a challenge, in his eyes. Thinking no doubt that Malfoy had stayed back to be with him. Well, Potter was no doubt used to people making a tremendous fuss over him. Really, Potter had the most amazing set of delusions. For example, the great Harry Potter really seemed incapable of wrapping his mind around the idea that people might have priorities that had nothing to do with him or his personal vendetta against the Dark Lord. Harry Potter was incredibly focused for such a young man. But then, Harry Potter didn't seem very young these days. Sometimes he seemed as old as Dumbledore. Or Voldemort.

Malfoy reflected bitterly that it would have been better all around had Voldemort and Dumbledore managed to resolve their problems themselves and not left his generation to die solving them. Malfoy himself was intent on keeping the neutral ground. Oh, if there were a clear winning side, he'd have picked it. But while he knew Potter was fallible, he didn't have any delusions about the Dark Lord either. He'd seen the Dark Lord make mistakes, do things he had later wished undone, too late. There wasn't a winning side here, and that was half the reason he'd gotten close to Potter in the first place - let him know everything about me that he wants. And if he knows I pass information to the Dark Lord, then let it be whatever information he wants to pass. And to both, I've done my part. His father had chosen a clear side and look what that had gotten him - death by violence wasn't terribly uncommon in the Malfoy line, but it was one tradition Malfoy had no desire to uphold. Neutrality was survival, and Malfoy had always prided himself on his survival instincts.

"No, not at all," Malfoy replied in a sincere tone, as if Potter's question had been a straightforward request for information rather than fishing for reassurance. Malfoys did not not reassure. "I'm going in a bit later. Pansy's robe shopping today, you know, so I thought I'd better not be along when that started. Took all day last time." Cheerful and unconcerned, his tone said, no greater worries than avoiding a day's shopping with Pansy.

Potter chuckled and shook his head. Malfoy thought even his laughter was starting to sound serious these days. "Right, Malfoy," Potter said. He paused and looked at Malfoy again. "You know, I've got permission from Dumbledore to go - it's a bit of an errand - do you want to come along?"

"With you?" Malfoy hoped that sounded more disdainful than wistful. "Oh, that would be a great idea. Head down to the Three Broomsticks, go a few rounds of mead and proclaim our undying love to the whole world?"

While Malfoy...helped... both sides, publicly aligning himself with Potter would be suicidal. It didn't mean he never wondered what it would be like to have a normal public relationship instead of the Potter-Malfoy antagonism they were famous for. The enjoyment of knowing something no one else knew had long since faded. The delicious subtext of their public arguments was gone, replaced by a bitterness that originally had been in jest, and now? Now the bitterness seemed more real than not. Oh, Malfoy wondered what it would be like ... but if that meant to choose sides in a war? Give up everything he'd gained by standing the middle ground? No. Not yet. Not by a long shot.

"Yeah," Potter replied calmly, "something like that."

"Are you mad, Potter?" Malfoy leaned back against the window. "Don't take this the wrong way, but if you're losing your marbles, could you let me know? I'd rather clear out before the hexes start flying." He said it lightly, with a bit of a smirk.

Potter frowned and looked away, out of the window. Malfoy tried not to openly smile, tried not to think of kissing the down-turned corners of that mouth. In a little while, maybe, if this argument went as their other disagreements did. Potter would shrug his disappointment away, and Malfoy would slide off the window ledge and walk over to him and speak soothing words. Making up an argument was half the reason Malfoy started arguments anyway. And then, after it all, Malfoy would go into the village to meet Pansy and speak approvingly of her latest purchases. It was an outcome Malfoy would have bet money on, not merely because he had money to throw around, but because it wouldn?t be much of a gamble. It had become something of a ritual even.

"So that's how it is?" Still window-gazing.

"That's how it has to be, Potter. You know that." Why in Merlin's name was Potter so insistent on this today? How absolutely tedious! Malfoy had no plans to join him in whatever public escapade he had planned for Hogsmeade, for Potter's own personal - or Merlin forbid, political - ends.

Potter shrugged.

"Fine." He turned his eyes back to Malfoy. "I'd better go then." Potter turned as if to go. Malfoy slid gracefully off the window ledge and walked over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be upset, now. You know it would be unwise to change things. You agreed before that being seen together like that in public wouldn't help either of us. Nothing's different now." He ran his hand along Harry's jaw, watched Harry lean into the caress slightly.

It was like following a script they both had memorized, and maybe that's why Harry's next action took him by surprise, so that he didn't actually register Harry turning, grabbing his robes and throwing him against the wall behind them, until after the blinding pain of his head hitting the stone wall had subsided and his vision had cleared, and he could look up into Harry's eyes. If he had seen fury there, or even wildness, he would not have reached for his wand, and of course in retrospect, reaching for his wand at all was not the right thing to do. But Harry's eyes, always clear windows into his emotions, had become veiled, dark, and cold, and that frightened Malfoy more than he had ever thought possible. Just by instinct, he reached for his wand. Harry was faster - of course he was faster - and his quiet fierce "Expelliarmus!" was followed by an urgent "Petrificus totalus!"

Malfoy didn't fall to the stone floor; Harry was holding him, and he lowered him gently to the ground. It didn't matter; his head hurt badly enough already and his vision was beginning to blur again. Harry knelt beside him, leaned over him and Draco could see his eyes - they were clear again, and desperately sad.

"I gave you every chance, Draco. Every chance I could. Remember that," he whispered.

Potter's sad gaze seemed to bore all the way into his soul, and he knew that what was there would be found wanting. Or perhaps it already had been. He cast his mind back over the conversation, wondering where the turn was that he had missed. His vision began to blur more - did he have a concussion? something wrong with his eyes? - so that he really couldn't see Potter as he leaned closer and kissed him on the mouth, though of course he could feel it. He wondered absently what a Dementor's Kiss felt like - was there anything but horror as your soul drained away? Or were you too terrified to feel anything at all? Draco might have shivered at the thought, but of course, he couldn't move under the full Body-Bind. Even his mind was generally feeling a bit numb. He barely heard Harry stand up, pick Draco's wand up off the floor, and walk quickly out, closing the door behind him with a locking spell. He couldn't see from where he lay whether Potter looked back down on him as he walked out the door. An hour ago, he would have bet the family name on it.