Chiaroscuro

Harry looks beautiful in charcoal.

I think this as I watch him sleep, quiet and peaceful, in my bed. He looks out of place, all pale skin and dark hair, in the midst of garish green and silver bed hangings.

I can't remember now when I began drawing Harry, when I first felt moved to pick up my quill and sketch the strong lines of his face. Probably when I was around thirteen or fourteen, and really beginning to discover myself. Unfortunately, I also discovered Harry.

He was my obsession, in the beginning. He was beauty, perfection, everything I could never be. I knew I could never have him, knew how much he despised me, and so I began to draw him, allowing that to become my release. I would later discover other methods of release when thinking of Harry, but I never stopped drawing him.

I've never drawn us together. I'm too afraid - afraid of how his beauty will outshine my own, leaving me hidden in his shadows. There isn't enough room on the page for the both of us, or so I think.

And so I sketch him, and only him. The drawings are everywhere: in my notebook, above my bed - even in the equipment shed on the quidditch pitch.

The drawings were addictive, and so was Harry. Blazing green eyes, surrounded by sooty lashes - those lashes were my undoing. I would spend hours drawing them, making sure each lash was perfect.

That's what I was doing the day Harry discovered my fixation.

It was double potions, and Snape was droning on about some restorative elixir. Nothing I hadn't heard before. I excelled at potions, and daydreaming through one class wouldn't hurt. Of course, to the class, and to Snape as well, it appeared that I was scribbling furiously, taking copious notes.

I was working rather hard, but my furrowed brow and intense look of concentration had nothing whatsoever to do with the healing properties of shrivel figs. No, my lack of attention to my favorite subject was due to the fact that the lashes of Harry's right eye were not quite right.

I didn't realize until it was too late that Snape had directed a question in my direction. Granger's arm shot up, of course, but Snape had already seen that I was lost.

"Well, Mr. Malfoy?" Snape smirked evilly. Anyone who says the man shows favoritism to the Slytherins is sadly mistaken.

"Um... Sir?"

Snape rolled his eyes. "Twenty points from Slytherin. Honestly, Malfoy, Potter pays better attention than you sometimes."

My eyes drifted over to where Harry sat. Granger and the Weasel snickered behind their cauldrons, happy to see me get what they thought I was due. But Harry just watched, those smoldering eyes searching mine. I looked away, unable to shield myself from his gaze, unwilling to let him see the emotion I knew was written all over my face. Malfoy's do not show emotion, they do not make scenes in classrooms, and they do not lust over goddamn Harry Potter...

"Mr. Malfoy! It is obvious you are in no condition to participate in today's lecture. As such -"

"Excuse me, Professor," said a voice. My eyes snapped up. What the bloody hell?

"Erm.. I don't think... I mean... it wasn't Malfoy's -"

"Silence, Potter!" Snape roared, rattling the windows. "Out, both of you! And twenty points from Gryffindor for further disrupting my class. Go to the library, and do not return to this class until you've written 12 inches on the Elixir of Calm, and have learned how to behave."

I gathered my books quickly, tossing my roll of parchment into my bag as I stood up. A sheet of paper fell from my lap, drifting out into the aisle. It was the drawing of Harry.

Oh shit,

I thought. Shit, shit, fuck, damn, shit. I may have been an artist, but I wasn't particularly creative when it came to swearing. I concentrated on willing the drawing to me. It had floated out of reach, and going to pick it up would only draw attention.

Harry swept by, stopping as he passed to pick up the paper.

I considered throwing myself at the mercy of Snape right then and there. I was a dead man either way.

Instead, I held my head high and walked regally out of the classroom. Once outside, I continued walking, wanting to make it to the bathroom before I threw up. He knew. Harry knew, and by dinner the entire school would have heard about my twisted obsession. I would be tossed out of Slytherin House, exiled from my friends. And if my family got wind of it... oh, God...

"Malfoy." It was Harry. He had snuck up right behind me. Damn him.

"What is it, Potter?" I snarled, glad to hear my normally sarcastic voice had not lost its harsh tone. "Want an exclusive interview before you run off to tell your friends?"

Harry looked confused. He was still clutching the drawing, giving me wide, innocent eyes. Damn him again.

"Well, you can quote me on this: I think you're fucking beautiful. So beautiful it's unbearable sometimes, and it hurts, and the only way I can make it go away is to draw you, because I know I can never touch you, because I'm -"

"Thank you," Harry said quietly, putting an end to my violent and pointless rambling.

Well, that had certainly been unexpected.

"What?" So much for that sharp Malfoy wit.

"I... thank you." He stared at the drawing. "Is this... is this really how you see me?"

"Well of course it is," I said snappishly. "Does it look like impressionism to you?" Harry didn't reply. "Are you saying it's bad?" Now that the damage was done, I didn't think I could bear it if Harry thought my work was crap.

"God, no," he said, and I felt a sense of elation improper for any self-respecting Malfoy.

"Well, that's... good," I said, not really knowing what to say or think. A first for me. I made a move to take the drawing from Harry, but he pulled it away from my hand.

"What the hell are you doing? I want it back," I said indignantly. Harry looked embarrassed as he toyed with the edge of the paper. I repressed an impulse to bat his hand away.

"I thought," he said slowly, "that I might... might keep it."

Well, Harry was just full of surprises.

"Of course not!" I yelled, surprised at my own savageness. "What? You think I'd let you keep it, so you can show it to all your little Gryffindor groupies? Not bloody likely."

Harry's gorgeous eyes darkened. "Fine," he said, tight-lipped. "I don't know what I was expecting." He threw the sketch at me, storming off toward the library.

Panic.

"Potter, wait!" I cried, running after him, hardly knowing myself what I was about to do. I only knew that once he had turned those eyes on me, it was painful to have his gaze taken away.

He stopped, allowing me to catch up, though he kept his back to me.

"What is it, Malfoy?"

"I... I, erm... well, I just -" Shit. This was getting me nowhere. "Dammit, Harry, look at me." There. That was better. But why that look of shock? "What's the matter?"

"You... you just called me... Harry," he choked.

Oh. Shit. Again.

"I...well... Well."

His lips were on mine before I even knew what was happening, the drawing crushed and forgotten between our bodies as he pressed me against the wall.

"My room," he hissed, unclasping my robes. I was amazed he was even capable of such a coherent thought, the way he was clawing at me hungrily.

It was paradise.

I shook my head. "No, mine." He sighed, exasperated.

"Fine, have it your way."

"I'm a prefect, you imbecile. I have my own room."

"Oh."

They say you never forget your first time. We don't get that lucky. My first time with Harry was fumbling, awkward, and over much too soon. It also hurt like a son of a bitch. Afterward, I turned onto my side, wishing Harry would just get up and leave, and let me suffer through my humiliation in peace.

After a moment, I felt him nudge up against me.

"What?" I snapped, praying he didn't want to cuddle after that fiasco.

"Draw me," he whispered, so softly I thought I'd heard wrong.

"What?"

"I want you to draw me."

I rolled over, staring into his earnest face. "Like this?" I whispered.

Harry nodded. "Like this. I want to remember."

Fucking

Harry Potter. He had just witnessed that awful display of my utter lack of manhood, and he wanted a keepsake. I did something then that no Malfoy has ever done before or since.

I fell in love.

It became our little ritual. We would make love, and then I would draw Harry. Often, we'd make love again afterwards.

He's asked me several times to include myself in the drawings, but I always say no. I don't want to dirty Harry's beauty, to defile it, that way.

Tonight is different. Tonight, I give him what he wants. As he sleeps, I draw him, my fingers moving the charcoal fluidly across the paper. After a few moments, I turn to the mirror, sketching my own face and body.

I am so focused, I don't even hear Harry crawl up behind me. It is only when I feel his warm lips pressed against my bare shoulder, I realize he is awake.

"God, Draco," he murmurs into my hair. "That's gorgeous."

I look down at the drawing and note, to my surprise, that he's right. We look so perfect, so right together. My throat burns suddenly, and my back tenses.

Harry doesn't notice the change. He reaches over me, lightly touching the drawing. "Beautiful," he says, nuzzling softly at my ear. "The way you used the shadows -"

"Chiaroscuro," I whisper.

"What's that?"

"An artistic term. It refers to the contrast and the blending of light and shadow."

"Chiaroscuro," he says, turning the word over on his tongue. God, but he's breathtaking. "I like it," he says finally. "It's... it's us."

I smile slightly. I've thought the same thing myself. "Ironic, isn't it?"

"What's that?" he says, trailing kisses down my back.

"Chiaroscuro. You're shadow and I'm light. Artistically speaking, anyway."

Harry smiles against my skin. "Mmm. Ironic."

"Here. I want you to have it." I turn, all but shoving the piece of paper at him. He looks a bit surprised, but accepts.

"Thank you. That means a lot to me."

I nod tersely, not sure if I have the courage to say what I've practiced next.

"It will be the last."

He understands.

"My father," I begin, but I know he knows.

"We've been expecting this," he says, fingering the drawing. I can tell he's fighting back tears. I want to hold him, kiss him, make love to him until I know he won't forget.

I know he won't.

And I don't move.

He gets up slowly, pulling on his robes. He is halfway to the door when he turns back. He hands me the drawing.

"You keep it," he says. "So you'll remember... how beautiful we are... you are."

And then he is gone.

I stare after him, and then look down to the drawing.

Chiaroscuro.

He will always be the light to my shadow.