Don't Talk To Me

What if this is as good as it gets?

Harry runs his slim fingers through the raven wing tangle that is his hair, and frowns heavily. What if it never got any better? What if this is all life has to offer? What if I die tomorrow? What if I live?

Rain is pounding on the common room window, perhaps desperate to soak the dry boy within. He stares, sadly, lightly, at the torrent before him; the raging winds on the other side of the window and the raging hormones on the inside. It is Valentine's Day, and not one person is without a lover; that is, of course, excluding Harry Potter. He sits by himself, a burden to everyone else. How can they enjoy themselves when their hero is so sad? But they don't know what causes his heart to cry the way it does, they don't know what makes his eyes mist over so mournfully. Perhaps, Harry thinks, they don't care.

Hermione and Ron are all alone in their own little realm, kissing and whispering tenderly to each other, no room left for the orphan. They don't even notice when Harry suddenly leaves in a huff, broomstick in hand. All they see is brown eyes, bright brown eyes full of love.

* * * *

Harry cries to himself, the tears running freely now that there are none to see and mock him. All around him the sound of vicious pounding rain bashes about. He closes his eyes in frustration, trying to block out the noises; they remind him of...

Suddenly there is a new sound; a slight rustle, as though someone in a heavy cloak is approaching. A black tangle of trepidation curls itself around Harry's heart. He stops breathing, in order to hear the intruder's own labored breath. He grips the broom so roughly that his fingers turn white, the blood squeezed out from his sudden fear.

There he is.

"Hello, Harry."

The voice is familiar, sweet, uncertain. Harry's heart jumps into his throat at the shaky whisper. He struggles to force it back down as the figure pauses, hesitating.

"Draco," he whispers, the name flowing effortlessly past his lips, though it stings and burns a path of fire in his mouth.

Ever so slowly he turns around, his urges hovering somewhere between running away, and pushing the boy behind him against a wall and......

No. Don't think like that.

Draco hazards a glance at Harry, heartened by the fact that the raven-haired young man hasn't hexed him into oblivion, or at the very least ignored him. The way he stands there, his tall, lanky body tense with some emotion that Draco cannot fathom, speaks to the pale boy in a way that no words could ever covey. Something is wrong. Draco's icy grey eyes linger on Harry's callused fingers, clenching and unclenching as though Harry longs to wrap them around something. Probably his wand, though Draco would rather it be......

Stop it.

Harry completes his turn, and lets his eyes rake over the willowy boy before him. He drinks up the sight of sleeves rolled up, revealing a tempting amount of moon-white flesh, and stares, unabashedly at the slim hips and long legs. Draco squirms under the intense scrutiny.

Harry continues his inspection, his upper lip starting to curl viciously. He carefully avoids Draco's eyes, and gazes at the gentle slope of a delicate shoulder. Finally, Draco can take the hostile silence no longer.

"What do you see?" he asks in a soft whisper, eyes hopeful and wide. Harry looks at Draco without looking into those silver pools, now staring at him so expectantly.

"I see a young man who looks like a little girl," he hisses scathingly. Draco jumps, startled at the venom in his classmate's voice. Noticing the sudden flash of hurt that crosses the pale visage, Harry turns away again, fingernails threatening to dent the varnish on his Firebolt. "And an ugly one at that."

For a second there is silence, heavy and thick. Harry tries to melt the stone floor with his eyes as he listens to Draco sniffle quietly.

"Harry..."

"Leave me alone."

"But, I..."

"Go." There are footsteps, the soft sounds of a cloak rustling, and a hesitant voice as Draco pauses by the door.

"I just had to tell you-"

"Out!" No sound. "NOW!!"

Harry spends the next hour listening to Draco's fading footsteps echoing in his head.

* * * *

The rain has stopped. In a sudden change of heart, Mother Nature has decided to spill her golden sun beams on the residents of Hogwarts. Not that any of them notice; all are so heavily sedated with romance that the school could burst into frenzied flames before any of them halt their snogging sessions.

Yet two single students take the time to stare at the fleeing clouds, to listen drowsily to the cheerful song of a hundred different cheerful birds. To try and stifle the tormented shrieks of pain issued from their fast beating hearts.

A tall slim figure slinks across the grounds, ignoring the cold, wet ground that is soaking his very expensive pants. He walks with his long-fingered hands in his pockets and his normally arrogant grey eyes trained on his feet. Anyone looking out at him might be surprised at his defeated stance, his stooped shoulders. Or they might not care.

Draco has his money on the latter.

His head swimming, eyes misting, he scans the horizon for a haven, somewhere where he can be alone with his thoughts, and imagine being alone with Har-

No.

He hates me.

And his name is Potter.

Barely able to see through the rapidly forming oceans before his eyes, Draco spies a small hut in the distance, a curl of smoke twisting about it protectively. It looks cozy. It looks perfect.

Draco breaks into a highly undignified run, his billowing cloak the only hint of Slytherin about him. As he comes to rest in front of the door, placing his hands on his knees and panting for breath, he realizes where he is.

That giant oaf's cabin, Hagrid's home.

And the ferocious looking man is home, looking out his front window at the very winded young Malfoy on his doorstep. For a second Hagrid thinks that perhaps it may be a trick of the light, that it is a different, more mannered student. But no, there is no mistaking that shower of pale silvery-gold that hangs loosely above the boy's shoulders.

Both males hesitate, stuck between curiosity and disgust. Hagrid is the first to move. He has the door open before Draco can even raise his pale fist.

"Whadda yeh want, Malfoy?" he asks gruffly. His large face is contorted, halfway between a polite smile and ill disguised animosity. Draco is rather put out by his teacher's lack of manners, but realizes that, of course, not everyone grew up in a manor.

"I just wanted somewhere to stay for a little while," he says, deciding to drop the snooty tone he usually adopts in front of the half-breed. He needs an ally; the fact that Hagrid happens to be close to Harry is just a bonus.

Hagrid looks at him for a few seconds, suspicion written all over his face. "Whadda mean by that?"

Draco has to pinch himself to keep from rolling his eyes. Struggling to maintain his dignity, he lifts his head imperiously. "I need a place to hide for a couple of hours." He lowers his voice. "And someone to talk to."

Hagrid's eyes widen, then immediately narrow. "I don't wanna talk to you. No' after what ya did ta Harry."

Now it is Draco's eyes who imitate dinner plates. "what did I do to Harry?"

"Ferget so soon, Malfoy?" says Hagrid, his voice positively dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm getting the impression that Harry is mistaken about something..."

"He's no' mistaken 'bout anything, yeh dobbin' git! And if yeh know what's good fer yeh, yeh'll stay away from here!" the giant shouts, before slamming the door in a very shell shocked blonde's face.

Draco stares at the rotting wood for a few minutes, thinking hard. What did I do?

There's only one person who can answer that question.

And he's not talking to me.

* * * * * *

Valentine's Day is coming to a close. From most, this news is met with wistful sighs and full hearts; for Harry Potter, it couldn't be any more welcome.

As he sits, staring hard at the dusky purple ceiling, the imitation sky is momentarily blocked by the fluttering of a hundred owls, come to deliver candy from parents, and late Valentines. To Harry's utter surprise, a small, glittering red paper heart gently lands in front of him.

Noticing their friend's stunned silence, Ron and Hermione tear their mouths apart, and look at him. "You okay, mate?" Harry, without looking up, nods. He picks up the Valentine with a shaking hand. Hermione reaches out to steady him, concern on her face.

"Did you have a row with Draco?" she asks, softly, as though Harry would, at any moment, flip out and kill them all. He looks at her sadly.

"Sort of," he manages to choke out. For a second Ron looks cheerful, before noticing the utter misery on his best friend's face, and the reprehension on his girlfriend's.

"Looks like he sent you a Valentine anyway; aren't' ya gonna read it?" Harry stares at the paper, debating. It is as red as blood, and just as fascinating. And it smells good, a scent only a selected few could recognize; it smells of lemons and grass, and a hint of the dark perfume of the dungeons. It smells of Draco.

Harry chokes, "No," and sends it across the table at Ron. "Tell me if it's anything good." Ron takes it in his large hands apprehensively, and opens it wide. His brown eyes skim the contents, and disgust flashes across his face, before passing it to Hermione. As she reads it, her eyes widen, and then fill with tears.

"How completely and utterly sweet!" she cries, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. Ron rolls his in disgust. Hermione smiles encouragingly. "You simply have to read this, Harry. Who knew Malfoy could write?"

With a swift, unconnecting glance at the Slytherin table, Harry sweeps the Valentine into his trembling fingers, and begins to read.

*

Within seconds he is reduced to noisy tears. Ron looks around fearfully as Harry buries his head in his golden arms. People are beginning to stare. Ron hisses at Harry to shut his bloody trap, which only serves to increase the volume of his heartbroken wails.

Ron reaches over and slaps Harry on the head, hard. "Pull yourself together, mate!" Harry lifts his head, his frantic sobs ebbing gradually. Ron holds back a sigh of relief, sure that any sudden movements or sounds will send Harry back into the unending flow of tears. "It's just a Valentine, what are you spouting on about?"

Harry looks at Ron in indignation. "Did you even read this?" he cries loudly, waving the heart in front of Ron's face.

Ron screws up his nose. "Duh, you watched me, didn't you?"

Harry ceases with the flamboyant waving, but the shocked face remains. "And you didn't think it was the...the...the most..." Harry stumbles, unable to find the words to describe what the blond Slytherin wrote to him. He gestures at Hermione, asking her to help him articulate it. She leaps on the challenge immediately.

"The sweetest, most heart-wrenching, tear-inducing, romantic thing you've ever read in your natural born life?" Harry nods eagerly.

"Couldn't have said it better myself!" Hermione beams; Ron pretends to retch.

Harry stares at the sparkling heart for a few seconds, before standing up suddenly, and walking away. A startled Hermione calls after him, "Where are you going?"

But Harry doesn't hear.

He has a blond to talk to.

*

Draco left when he saw his owl deliver the Valentine. He couldn't take the pressure, the overwhelming stress of knowing that as soon as the Valentine is opened, it can never be closed. Knowing that Harry might simply read it and laugh, or be angry, or hex him, or....

Calm down.

And suddenly a new sound reaches Draco's ears: frantic footsteps aimed in his direction. Draco's heart decides to take up residence in his mouth, his heartbeat pounding in his head, making him dizzy. Or maybe its the fact that Harry has just stepped into his line of vision, tear tracks on his cheeks, and something red clutched in his fist.

For a moment there is not a single sound other than heavy breathing issued from two tall, lanky boys, staring at each other with almost frightening intensity.

Harry steps towards Draco, his eyes clouded, a torrent of emotion. He sticks his hand into his pocket and pulls out a small white piece of parchment that looks as though it had gone through quite a bit of abuse, and possibly a roaring fire. He reaches for Draco, and takes one of his pale hands, placing the paper in his palm, and then stepping back. Draco knows he must inspect the paper, but would much rather concentrate on the brief contact with Harry's strong, tan fingers. He unfolds it slowly, never looking up. He is startled to see his own slanted handwriting.

Draco looks up at Harry, who is shocked to see a large smile brightening the Slytherin's face. "This isn't for you, you prat," he says cheerfully. "Is this why you've stopped talking to me?"

Harry points to the top of the page. "P for Potter, which is what you would call me if you wanted to break up." Draco laughs.

"P for Pansy, who, if you've forgotten, has been my cover-up for the past three years." He crumbles the paper up and throws it over his shoulder. "And if I really wanted to break up with you, would I try so hard to make you talk to me?"

Harry shuffles his feet, looking highly embarrassed. "I don't know," he mumbles. Then, suddenly he looks up. "Does that mean you still want to go out with me? And you're going to break it off with Pansy?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Did you even read the Valentine I sent you?" Harry's face widens in a smile, but then darkens again.

"Did you mean it?" he asks quietly. "The last part?"

Draco gathers the smaller boy in his arms, and places a soft kiss on his lips. "Of course I did, you ninny."

"You've never said it before..." Harry looks into the grey eyes above him, which are so full of tenderness it makes him want to burst into tears again.

Draco leans down and whispers in Harry's ear, making the Gryffindor shiver.

"I never thought I had to."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? I tried to hide it for so long, but you shattered my mask...now all you have to do is look at me and I'm your slave." Harry smirks.

"Don't I get a whip?" Draco plants a kiss on Harry's grinning mouth.

"Maybe that's part of your Valentine's Day present..."

*

Neither boy, in their haste to reach the room of requirement, noticed a small, glittering red paper heart flutter to the ground. It lay like a pool of bright blood against the dingy stone, glimmering in the flickering torchlight. And at the bottom, written in gleaming gold ink, were the three hardest words for a Malfoy to say*.

*That is, of course, after 'No sex tonight'