Breaking Glass

Baby, I've been

Breaking glass in your room again

Listen

You're such a wonderful person

But you got problems

Oh-oh-oh-oh

I'll never touch you

-David Bowie, "Breaking Glass"

"Harry. Harry, are you even listening to me!"

"Oh! Uhm, sorry, Hermione, what were you saying?"

Hermione Granger scowled. "I was saying that we should get together during lunch to study for the Charms test coming up. But you were staring off at the Slytherin table."

"I was?"

"Yes, you were. Didn't you notice?"

"I guess not." He gulped down some orange juice. "Where was I looking, specifically?"

She pointed. "Sort of between Malfoy and Goyle."

"Oh. All right. So, um, studying?"

"Yes. There's that test in Charms class coming up. I think we should all meet up in one of the empty classrooms to practice those music charms. Ron already said he could. How about you?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Excellent."

The sound of glass shattering across the room startled them out of their conversation. Ron stood up, frowning, to see what it was. "It looks like...Malfoy's dropped a glass of something." He stifled a snicker. "He seems angry. I think it was something Crabbe said."

True enough, Malfoy was berating Crabbe as he wrapped a napkin around the cut on his hand, and the larger boy was responding with confused defenses that were unintelligible from where Harry and his friends were sitting. After a moment, Snape came over to see what, exactly, was going on. He made a sharp gesture at the rest of the students in the hall, who quickly looked back at their own tables and meals. Harry frowned. "I wonder what Crabbe could have said to startle Malfoy that much."

Across the room, Crabbe was making a spirited, though failing, attempt at defending himself verbally. "...but all I said was that you probably came close to killing Potter in that competition, Mr. Malfoy!"

***

Professor McGonagall's voice startled Malfoy out of his daze, forcing him to compose himself quickly. One of the cuts on his hand pulled slightly. He winced.

"Mis-ter Malfoy, I asked you a question."

"What was it again, Professor?"

"I was asking you about the biggest problem with transfiguring a large object into a significantly smaller one, but since you seem to not know the answer, I will ask someone else."

"No, no, I know it. There's trouble with the amount of substance being compressed by the spell, so you need to find a way to dispose of the extra for the time during which the object will be transfigured."

The professor looked suitably surprised by the fact that he'd actually been able to answer the question. "Very good, Draco. Now, there are a number of ways in which to store extra substance when transfiguring something very large, and though you don't know it, you've all been using the simplest one..."

He drifted off into daydreams again. Now what had he been thinking about when McGonagall interrupted him?

The dance. Potter.

There had been something there besides them. He didn't know what. Neither did Potter, apparently, because if he'd known, he probably would have mentioned it at that dinner with Grace, while she was away. Come to think of it, Draco wasn't entirely sure why they'd been talking so freely. He'd said some things that he normally would never have told anyone, let alone Potter. Grace had probably slipped them something in that wine. He'd thought it tasted funny. Although he'd probably have to set Crabbe and Goyle on her before she'd tell him what it was.

***

He reclined in a chair made of gold and red leather, servants painting the battle-patterns on his chest with the sacred henna. Across the square, he could see the other, in another chair, silver and blue, and he was also being painted.

He did not want to fight the other, but it had to happen. It was required.

The servants finished their painting and stepped away, and others came forward with the fans, which they would use to try and speed the henna's drying.

It dried. They scraped off the excess, and he stood, going to the center of the square. The other came forward. They faced one another, staring, assessing.

The call came. They dove forward, grappling, beating on one another's backs with their hands, kicking and biting and pushing. They rolled on the ground in the square, picking up dirt as they fought.

Almost simultaneously, each one found a weakness in the other, and they fell apart, out of breath and bloody. He knew that the fight was finished, and that his chest heaving, his breath harsh in his throat - this was what it meant to be alive, and to be a power.

He was the Fire. He raised his voice in a scream.

Harry sat up with a start, gasping for breath. A dream. It was a dream. An extremely realistic and coherent dream in which he fought someone who looked suspiciously like Malfoy.

No more sleep tonight. He snatched his glasses and crawled out of bed, pulling on his uniform sleepily. He left the outer robe behind, since it was the middle of the night and nobody would really care. His Invisibility Cloak he tucked under his arm, and, as usual, his wand was in his back pocket.

He wandered along aimlessly through the halls, staring at the sleeping figures in portraits and watching the stones, until he reached the Great Hall. Another student was already there, and, startled, he turned and pounced. The two boys tumbled onto the floor and came to a halt when they bumped into the dais on which the teachers' table was, Harry with his shoulders pinned to the ground, staring up at the other person.

It was Malfoy. The blond boy was panting, eyes wide. Harry blinked, peering at him.

"Malfoy? What are you doing awake?"

"I couldn't sleep." Malfoy sneered at him. "But I'm sure you'd know all about it, up with your scar hurting at all hours of the night, sobbing for your mum."

Harry scowled. "You know, I'd yell at you for that, but considering that it's basically what you've said hundreds of times before and I'm very sleepy, I won't bother. If you must know why I'm up, I had a really odd dream."

Malfoy blinked and frowned, loosening his grip slightly. "What was it about?"

"Probably this right now. I think I was fighting with you."

"...was there war paint?"

"How did you know?"

"I think I had the same dream."

There was a short pause before they sprang apart, backing away from one another.

Finally Malfoy spoke again. "Look, it had to have been a mistake. You go back to your room, I'll go back to mine, and we'll forget it. I'd rather not know that I have anything in common with you, Potter."

"Sure. Same here."

They both turned to go, but then Harry paused and turned back around. "Hey, Malfoy, wait one moment."

"What, Potter?"

"When you woke up, was there a sort of...odd feeling?"

Malfoy looked surprised. "How do you mean?"

"A sort of...like, a burning, twisting feeling in your stomach, like there's something in there trying to get out."

"No."

"Oh."

"It was dead cold. Not burning at all."

"So you did feel something, then."

"Yeah."

They made as if to leave again, but this time it was Malfoy who stopped. "You know, I think there's something I'm supposed to do now."

"And that would be?"

The blond boy's punch hit him squarely on the mouth. Harry reeled back in surprise, and then retaliated.

A moment later, Malfoy was out cold on the floor, with Harry shaking him. "Oh, hell...I didn't know he had a glass jaw...um...what's that spell..." He dug in his pockets for his wand, and finally found it, pointing it at Malfoy. "Ennervate."

Malfoy sat up, shaking his head dizzily. "Ow. Look, Potter, if you intend on punching me again in the near future, just don't go for the jaw. It feels like a Bludger hit it."

"But, I, uh, I didn't know about the jaw-"

"It's not something I like to advertise. Now shut your flapping lips and help me up, you idiot."

"Oh, um, I'm sorry." Harry stood, took Malfoy's hand, and pulled the other boy to his feet.

"Try to be less of a prat. Why are you apologizing, anyway?" Malfoy brushed himself off, watching Harry expectantly. "We despise each other, remember?"

Harry nodded. "Well, yes, but that doesn't mean I want to hurt you. You're an utter bastard, but I try to draw the line at actual physical injury. Unless you're provoking me, that is."

The blonde boy rubbed at the growing bruise on his chin. "Understood. I don't know what came over me anyway, punching you. Let's follow the original plan and just go back to our rooms and forget that this happened."

"Agreed."

They both nodded and went back to their separate dormitories, to ponder this disturbing encounter in peace.

***

Two nights later, on the way down from Astronomy class, Harry was surprised by the sound of two people in one of the tower's less-used storage rooms.

"There's people in there, Ron."

Ron looked up at where Harry was pointing. "Oh, there? Probably just some couple snogging. C'mon, Harry, I'm tired."

"No, you go, I'll catch up."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"Going to see if you're right. I'm feeling nosy." Harry waved at Ron. "Really. Go on ahead."

The red-haired boy raised his eyebrows, then shrugged and yawned. "All right, then. Don't be too long, or some professor's bound to notice." He headed down the stairs.

Harry tip-toed over to the storage room door and opened it a crack, peering inside. One of the people was Malfoy. For some reason, this didn't surprise him terribly. However, he was quite surprised to see that the blonde boy was engaged in what seemed to be a heated snogging session with, of all people, Blaise Zabini.

Malfoy and Blaise pulled apart, long enough for Malfoy to say, without looking, "Sod off, whoever's there. I'm busy." He looked around. "Oh. Fancy seeing you here, Potter."

Harry just stared. Blaise eyed him with faint interest, though he seemed mainly occupied with tracing patterns on Draco's chest with one finger.

"In case you hadn't guessed, this is also something I don't care to advertise."

"But...the Yule Ball. I thought you and Pansy were..."

"That's what-stoppit, Blaise, that tickles-that's what's called keeping up appearances. Now, as you can see, I'm rather busy. If you tell anyone, I'll hex you."

"Don't worry. I'm going to go scrub my eyeballs now." Harry shut the door and shuddered.

When he caught up with Ron, the other boy grinned at him sleepily. "So, who was it?"

"Malfoy, and someone I couldn't see."

"Eeuch. Malfoy, snogging?" Ron shook his head as if to clear his mind of the image. "Yuck."

"My feelings exactly. I'm trying to forget."

***

Once they'd informed Hermione and seen her become suitably disgusted at the idea of Malfoy snogging someone, the two friends made their way upstairs and crawled into their beds.

"Night, Harry."

"Night, Ron."

And, as he drifted off to sleep, Harry wondered why he'd kept Malfoy's secret, and felt fire creep along his bones.

***

The arena. It was death for some and glory for others, and he knew which would be his. The knife felt easy in his hand, a simple extension of the rest of his arm. He set the knife down and dumped a bucket of water over himself, then shook his head to clear it. The gleaming silver cuffs around his forearms dripped water, and one errant lock of white-gold hair plastered itself to his forehead. He pushed it over his ear, forcing it to blend in with the rest of the smooth, damp mane.

The whistle rang out, shrill and piercing. He snatched up his knife again, touched the sapphire on the pommel for good luck, and raced out into the arena to the cheering of the masses.

Their adulation was intoxicating. For a moment he allowed himself to forget the impending fight in favor of letting the screams of the crowd wash over him. But the other was waiting for him with the flickering, quick-tempered impatience of his kind. He had not worried over his appearance, dark hair shaggy and unkempt, hanging to his waist and making him beast-like. The nobleman scowled, and the other flashed him a toothy grin.

Then came the whistle again, and they started circling around each other like rival males in a pack of wolves. A flash of one knife, a drip of cold blood, and the battle began.

This, they both knew, was much more sophisticated than their battles of old. Their knives were metal, and beautifully made, and they did not bother to fight with bare hands. Their blood dripped onto the sand of the arena and mixed, letting off little clouds of purplish steam.

Two particularly painful blows, and they stopped their battle. Both were cut and exhausted, bleeding sluggishly from multiple cuts. They bowed, and nodded, and the nobleman knew that this bloody, pained feeling was what it was all about, what life was for.

Raising his face to the clouds, he let out an ululating war cry. He was not a god. He was greater than the gods.

He was the Water. He was the Ice.

The sound of shattering glass and a sudden flood of quiet cursing woke Draco up. He scowled sleepily, pulling the curtains open. "Blaise, love, what in hell are you doing?"

Blaise looked up from where he was cleaning the shards from the ground. "I was thirsty. When I was going back to bed with the water you screamed. Or...something. Something like a scream. I dropped my glass. Is anything wrong, Draco?"

"Nothing. I just...had an odd dream. ...did I say anything? Before I woke up?"

"Something about gods. I didn't hear what it was exactly." The glass cleaned up and magically flown to a small wastebasket in the corner of the room, Blaise came over to Draco's bedside. "Here. Lie down." He tucked the other boy into bed and leaned down to kiss him on the mouth. "Sorry for waking you up, dear. Go back to sleep."

***

Dangling it over her head. Just out of reach. The power, power so great that she wanted to touch it, to kiss it, to devour it and take it into herself. She snatched at it, and her fingers brushed it, but then it was jerked away again.

You must do this, they said. Fire. Ice. Together. With. Not apart.

"Fuck you," she said, hearing her own voice slink off into the darkness as if it was ashamed to be seen with her. "I don't take orders, love. Give it to me."

It will be given, but do this first. Put them together. Ice. Fire.

"I'm trying!" She scowled and snatched at the power again.

Grace stretched, opening her eyes slowly, the dream fading. She had a splitting headache, which was quickly remedied by a charm, but it wasn't the best way to wake up. Shuffling down to the seventh-year washrooms and taking a hot shower was better, so she did that.

Her figurines in their little box were both awake when she returned, though they moved slowly. She grinned, watching them as they sluggishly mimed the routines of the morning.

"Humouros."

After a moment, the charm took effect, and so instead of mimicking their human counterparts, the figurines began to circle, as they'd done the first night she made them. They drew slightly closer together, and the animosity was now tinged with puzzlement and inquisitiveness.

She was late for breakfast again. A moment of carefully moving the box back under the bed, without disturbing the figurines, and she was off.

***

Soon after Grace's spell had taken effect on the figurines, glass shattered again in the Great Hall, and students at the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables felt themselves buffeted momentarily by winds that were icy cold and scorchingly hot at the same time. Two boys stood staring at each other over the heads of other students.

Harry bit back a curse word and looked away first, to see to the glass that he'd broken.

Across the Hall, Malfoy frowned as he sat down. Something wasn't right. Not right at all.