Un-Palindrome

Un-Palindrome

Potter.

Potter is.

Potter is everywhere.

* * *

Things change.

Draco knows things change, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. He stalks the halls of Hogwarts during the day, his presence still parting the waves of students. His gaze glides over everything, catching on nothing. To see would be to acknowledge and to acknowledge would be to admit and he refuses to admit to anything these days.

And these days are changing. An air of expectation hangs heavily over the school, this isolated, miniature Wizarding World. Nobody knows how things are changing except maybe Dumbledore, but he's not telling. Draco ignores it, ignores everything. He pretends things are still the same and that is why he still stalks the halls of Hogwarts during the day, his presence still parting the waves of students.

And Potter is changing. Draco sees it. There was anger in Potter, a fiery stubbornness, an unwillingness to be passive, to be buffeted by his fate. Now there is resignation. There is distance. The Gryffindors are quiet now, subdued. There is no more laughter at their table in the Great Hall. They walk the halls with their heads down, clinging to the edges of the crowd, their minds filled with the expectation and the unknown.

But Draco ignores it all. He goes to class. He excels at Potions. He preens under Snape's grudging praise. He torments Hufflepuffs and does his best to trip up the Gryffindors. He plays Quidditch. He glowers at Potter when Potter catches the Snitch and Gryffindor beats Slytherin once again. Through it all, Draco ignores the tides that are beginning to lap at the school, this isolated, miniature Wizarding World.

These days are changing and these nights are changing, too. At night, Draco haunts the halls of Hogwarts and, with no one around to remind him otherwise, he imagines that things are timeless. He still walks down the middle of the hallway even though there are no crowds of students through which to stride. No. He walks in the middle of the hallways so that his footsteps fall upon the smooth stones, worn down by countless footsteps before his. At night, Draco is just one of many.

He trails his fingers over the rough walls, leaving behind his touch so that he will always remain here in this moment unchanging. He may not be remembered, but he will not be forgotten.

Draco climbs to the top of the highest tower and opens a window there. He rests his elbows on the sill and wonders how many students have done this before him and tries to count how many will do this after him.

Draco knows the moon changes, but doesn't begrudge it the phases because the light is always there, except for when it's not and then it's only because the moon is winking at him, letting him in on the cosmic joke.

Every time he comes up here, he plucks out a strand of his silvery hair and lets the wind take it, lets it spread pieces of himself to the ends of the earth so that he will always remain here in this moment unchanging.

* * *

Two lovers met on a battlefield, the tattered hems of their robes swaying together.

'Do you love me?' one asked.

The other answered, but did not reach out. 'I do. I love you.'

'Will you ever not love me?'

'I will never not love you. My love is unwavering. My love is unchanging.'

'But everything changes,' came the bitter reply.

'No,' said the other with a shake of his head. He straightened his glasses and finally took his lover's hand, pressing their palms together. 'I may change and you may change, but we will never change.'

And the sky spun around them, the stars wheeled around the earth, and the moon rose from the horizon. The lovers were separated. Then the sun rose, spilling light on the charred surface of the ground and on the broken bodies of the fallen. Lives slipped away, love blossomed, the sun set. The moon rose. The moon set. The sun rose. There was triumph and there was defeat. There were tears and there were partings. There were reunions and recoveries and there were different kinds of tears.

And two lovers met in an empty hallway, their fingertips grazing the cold stone walls.

'Do you still love me the same as before?' one asked.

'No,' said the other, with a shake of his head. He straightened his glasses and finally took his lover's hand, pressing their palms together.

Outside the window, the moon winked.

'I love you more than ever,' he continued.

'But you told me we would never change.'

'Sometimes, some things change for the better.'

* * *

And then one night, when Draco climbs to the top of the highest tower, there is someone else there and that someone else is Potter. Potter turns in surprise and Draco marvels at all the times their paths must have unknowingly crossed. They exchange insults and there is a heated scuffle which ends with a bloody nose for Potter and a black eye for Draco and after Potter trudges back down the stairs, tossing one last glare over his shoulder, Draco takes his normal seat at the already open window.

But he does not pluck out a strand of his silvery hair because he knows that Potter left with a tangled handful clinging to the back of his jumper.

Draco still wanders the hallways at night, trailing his fingers over the walls. Until one night when he stumbles across Potter doing the same thing. He briefly wonders why Potter is concerned with being remembered because it's not as though anyone could forget the Boy Who Lived. They take their fingers off the wall and meet in the middle of the hallway, so close to each other that Draco is standing on Harry's untied shoelaces. Draco thinks that maybe there are other things he could be trailing his fingers over. Better things that will not allow him to be forgotten.

He drifts forward, closer to Harry. Harry's lips part and Draco feels his breath ghost across his cheek, across his lips, and then he presses their mouths together. Draco sighs into Harry's mouth and smiles to think that his breath will always be a part of Harry now. He tangles his hands in Harry's hair and Harry's tongue slips into his mouth. How wonderful, he thinks, this passing of themselves back and forth, and he slides his mouth from Harry's, letting it trail down his throat. Draco licks and sucks at Harry's skin, savoring the taste in his mouth, savoring the taste on his tongue, a combination of salt and clean night air, but most especially the taste of memory.

Harry's hands are roaming and then they are slipping beneath his robes, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers, making Draco's mind center only on Harry's warm body pressed up against his. Draco returns to Harry's mouth and kisses him fiercely as though he could maybe crawl into Harry's skin and never leave.

Draco is sure that Harry's clever fingers, Harry's touch will never be enough and then, then he is, then he is coming, spilling himself over Harry's hand, choking on words crowding the back of his throat.

Draco is surprised to find himself pinned to the cool wall and he smiles as he wonders how many times this has happened right here in the past and tries to count how many times this will happen right here in the future.

But then Harry is kissing him again and pressing himself against Draco's hips.

He unfastens Harry's trousers and begins to stroke him gently. At the same time, Draco lifts Harry's hand to his mouth and licks it clean, sucking each finger deep into his mouth. Harry is panting now and Draco quickens his touch, leaning forward to press his tongue into Harry's mouth, letting him taste, pushing him just over the edge.

They linger together for a bit, their whispers absorbed by the silent walls of the school, this isolated, miniature Wizarding World. Eventually they separate and when they do, Draco returns to his bed, a single strand of brown hair wrapped around his finger.

These nights are changing and these days are changing, too. This time, when Harry catches the Snitch, and Gryffindor beats Slytherin, Draco glowers at him and then surprises him in the showers afterwards for a grudgingly congratulatory, but breathless, moment. Draco still harasses the Hufflepuffs and he still does his best to trip up the Gryffindors. He still sweeps through the middle of the corridors, making sure that his footsteps are the ones people will think of when they follow the worn path of stones. He still excels at Potions and he still goes to class.

But he accepts the air of expectation and decides that he will not let it sweep him aside. He will not let himself be changed. He will be a part of something and he will bring about change. Dumbledore still looks as though he is not letting any secrets slip, but now there is something in the way he looks at Draco when Draco looks at Harry that says he knows what is changing.

And Draco looks at Harry. He stalks through the halls of Hogwarts during the day, his presence still parting the waves of students. His gaze glides over everything, but catches on one thing. And seeing is acknowledging and acknowledging is admitting and he admits willingly, with whispers and gasps and hands tangled in soft hair.

And when he and Harry meet on that inevitable battlefield, he knows what the answer to all his questions will be.

* * *

Harry is everywhere.

Harry is.

Harry.