Beautiful Illusion

Chapter 01 - Entanglement

***

"Once when I was flying past the steeple
the bells were ringing in my ears
and I was counting the broken-hearted people
and I was following their tears
I am not sinking in the sadness
I am not throwing bitter stones
I do not worry who will mind me
I am not dancing alone

But you, who do you think I am?"

***

The hiss of ice melting under his skis as he slid down the powdery white mountainside was one of Draco Malfoy's favourite sounds. The tang of danger he felt as his lithe body twisted and manoeuvred its way down the snowy slope, coupled with the most incredible sense of power sent adrenaline coursing through his veins, bringing a rosy flush to his otherwise pallid face. A single error in judgment or the slightest imbalance would send him tumbling down the mountain, quite probably shattering every bone in his body in the process. But the fragility of his position just made Draco feel even more alive.

The icy mountain wind whipped through his shimmering white-blonde hair, mussing it so that you wouldn't know it was the same perfectly coiffed head all who knew Draco were accustomed to. Normally he would be appalled at his dishevelled state; but while he was skiing he couldn't care less.

The bitter wind stung his face and burned his lips as he sliced down the mountain, but it didn't bother him. He preferred to ski without the protection of a hood; it was so much more thrilling and natural this way.

Draco wound his way effortlessly down the ridge, marvelling at the ease with which his skies cut through the tightly-packed snow. It's almost like magic, he thought, and smiled. This genuine expression of pleasure was indeed a rare occurrence, mainly for the reason that Draco rarely felt that he had anything to smile about. More often than not, his delicate facial features were twisted into a malicious sneer, warping his naturally pleasing face into a canvas of cruelty.

When his face was distorted that way, as it so often was, his looks were entirely his father's; from the chilling silver gaze to the thin, curling upper lip. But when his face was relaxed and happy, as it was at this rare moment, he was the spitting image of his mother. The silver eyes thawed and became full of golden warmth; his flaxen hair gently framed his face and his smiling lips were flushed and full. To see him in this rare moment of pure, untainted happiness was to witness a thing of true, fleeting beauty.

Twisting his skis expertly, he glided to a halt, sending a shower of glistening ice chips up into the air in the process. He watched them fall and melt once more into the brilliant white ground, blending into the snowy powder effortlessly.

A snowflake drifted idly down from a puff of creamy cloud, catching the light as it descended from the heavens and creating rainbow fragments of brilliance. It idled for a few moments directly in Draco's line of vision. Looking through the snowflake every colour was heightened, each shape was pure and clear. Then the snowflake continued down towards the ground and the illusion was broken.

Gazing around at the landscape, Draco marvelled at how beautiful the world could be. He had a great appreciation of beautiful things; he considered himself to be one of them. To look upon something of beauty made Draco happy and as far as he was concerned that was an amazing thing indeed.

The New Zealand scenery was picturesque during June. The pristine snowfields glimmered and shone in the gentle sunshine; the skiers carving their way along the slopes seemed like bright, glowing jewels from where Draco was standing. Drawing in a deep breath, he let his lungs fill with brisk, clean air. This, he thought, was living. This was right. When he was skiing, he was free. At that moment Draco felt completely contented and at peace with the world.

He couldn't recall feeling this way for over a year; ever since the start of another school year with Harry Potter, in fact.

Potter. Just the thought of him made Draco's blood boil; sending hot currents of blood flooding into his capillaries and replacing that rosy winter flush with the scorching heat of hatred. Suddenly the scenery didn't seem so breathtaking any more; suddenly his skis were just strips of metal attached to his feet; not instruments on which he could fly, fly far away from everything that he wished to leave behind. And what of the snow, the delicate, melting, ever-changing snow, whose fragile beauty had so bewitched him just moments earlier? It was just white powder. The magic was gone and the moment was lost.

Damn the stupid sod. Now he had to go ruining Draco's moment of tranquillity, even though he was undoubtedly thousands of miles away. Probably at the Weasel's house, Draco thought, his lips curling into the smirk which transformed his face from beautiful to chilling, if you could even call it a house. More like an outsize pigsty. Still smirking, Draco glanced back up the ridge that he had just skied down. He could, of course, magic his way back up the twinkling white crest, but where was the fun in that? Using magic in a place as pure and untouched at this mountainside seemed wrong somehow, as if to use it would be to besmirch the area and upset the delicate balance of nature.

Drinking in the scenery one last time Draco began curving his way along a meandering slope, heading back to the lodge the long way.

***

At the very moment that Draco was savouring his skiing adrenaline rush, Harry was experiencing one of a different kind. Anxiety coursed through his veins, more of it being pumped through his body every second by his rapidly beating heart. He couldn't recall ever being this nervous, not even when he was facing Voldemort.

That's messed up, he thought. What more could he possibly have to fear from Draco Malfoy than from the wizard who had terrorized the Wizarding World and destroyed innumerable lives?

He knew the answer to that question. While Voldemort was indeed a terrible entity and one he dreaded facing, he knew what to expect from each encounter. Nothing Voldemort could do would ever surprise him; there were no depths of evil that he could sink to that he hadn't plumbed already.

Draco however was a different story. Whereas Voldemort affected Harry on a distant, albeit terrifying level, Draco affected Harry on a much deeper, more personal basis. Draco could get under Harry's skin like no other. He never knew quite what Draco would say or do next and that confused him.

Confusion was the one emotion that Harry was utterly incapable of dealing with.

Hatred he could handle. Sadness, he'd dealt with enough of in his life to know how to overcome the feeling. Grief left him reeling at first, but eventually the memories of those he had lost would inspire him to become a better and stronger person. Love, he had never truly experienced. But confusion left him an utter wreck; unable to see what path he should take or how to resolve the situation.

Confusion blinded him, made him unsure of what he was truly feeling. Harry had always relied heavily on his instinct to guide him through life, but when Draco Malfoy was around even that seemed to desert him, leaving him feeling utterly powerless.

At times, Draco seemed to act almost like a human being. Harry had observed him on occasion laughing with his fellow Slytherins, or offering a reassuring smile to new members of his Quidditch team before their first game. At times like those, Harry thought that he detected a flicker of golden light in Draco's eyes, illuminating his face and entirely transforming his features.

That was why on the other, far more frequent occasions when Harry witnessed Draco's callousness and bitter tongue, it left him feeling baffled and disappointed. He knew that he should be used to them, seeing as Harry himself was the primary victim of Draco's verbal and physical assaults, but he wasn't. During incidents such as these, he noticed that Draco's eyes seemed to be made of silvery ice, with no trace of human emotion in their depths.

Having seen quite enough of the more undesirable side of Draco to last anyone a lifetime, Harry should be certain that he was a despicable character, worthy of little thought and attention, but he didn't feel that way. He spent much of his free time mulling over his latest confrontation with Draco, or thinking about the way his eyes changed when he was acting like a normal human being. In fact, Draco was the main reason for Harry's ever more frequent mood swings. Whenever Ron or Hermione asked Harry what was troubling him, he would reply with the customary "nothing." He knew that they didn't believe him, but their feelings of hurt and confusion as to why he seemingly didn't trust them were far better than admitting the real reason he was troubled. Because contrary to what he had said and thought in Dumbledore's office, deep down Harry didn't believe that Draco was a monster incapable of change. He didn't believe it for one second, he never had. And that was what confused him most of all.

No, confusion was one emotion Harry would rather do without. And this "mission", or whatever Dumbledore wanted to call it, was sure to leave him more confused than he had ever been in his life.

***

Lean forward. Glide, don't waddle. Stay focused. Don't fall and crash to your death.

Harry's brain was buzzing a mile a minute as he hurtled down the mild slope, trying desperately to retain his balance.

Why is this so hard? It should be easier, dammit!

Frustration boiled up inside Harry as his usually superb balance failed him once again and his body crashed hard into the firm, icy snow for what felt like the millionth time.

His muscles burned as he struggled to stand. After a few fruitless moments, Harry realised that the end of one of his skis had somehow wedged its way into the snow, twisting his ankle at an awkwardly in the process. Digging one of his ski poles into the ground, Harry used the extra leverage to hoist himself up and out of his frosty trap. Wincing at the sharp, thrumming pain in his ankle he waddled his way back towards the canteen.

This new body really wasn't working out for him. If he had been inside his own skin, he knew that he would have picked skiing up as easily as he had Quidditch. His natural balance was faultless and his body was firm, toned and supple, perfect for sports such as this.

His new, decidedly more aristocratic body was undeniably less suited to physical activity. The muscles were flaccid from disuse, the hands soft and the reflexes nowhere near as sharp as Harry was accustomed to.

All of this made skiing hell. Dumbledore had insisted that Harry become at least moderately competent on the beginner slopes before attempting to befriend Malfoy. After all, a wealthy English boy who couldn't ski was simply unheard of and would be sure to raise eyebrows and suspicions. And he wouldn't want that now, would he?

Harry couldn't help feeling resentful towards Dumbledore for putting him in this position. Apart from there being absolutely no chance of Harry succeeding, as far as he saw it, now he had also lost the physical qualities that made him special. Up until now, he had unintentionally taken for granted his enviable agility and general physical prowess.

I definitely won't be taking them for granted anymore, he mused sullenly. How could he be expected to charm and wheedle information out of Draco when he couldn't help falling over his feet every three minutes?

It wasn't that he wasn't trying to learn. It wasn't that he secretly wanted to stay on these slopes forever if that was what it took to stay away from Draco and all the confusion and pain and those eyes, those eyes that pierced right through to the very core of him. No, none of that had any part of it. At least that was what Harry told himself. And if you didn't admit the truth to yourself, who could you ever be honest with?

Cursing softly under his breath, Harry made his way to the counter.

"How can I help you, sir?" The woman's cheery smile only served to irritate Harry further.

"Hot chocolate, please." The upper class, refined tone of his new voice still startled Harry. It was so wrong for that voice to be coming out of that body. None of this was him and it was confusing the hell out of him. Harry couldn't stand confusion.

I just want this whole thing to be a nightmare, he pleaded in his head. I'll wake up and Ron will be there and we'll go down to breakfast with Hermione and have Transfiguration and Potions class and everything will be back to normal. It was a mark of how uncomfortable the situation was for him that he was actually thinking wistfully of attending Potions class. Harry had never understood the "subtle art of potion making", as Professor Snape liked to describe it. Potions also happened to be Malfoy's favourite subject, another reason for his dislike of it.

"There you go, sir. That's €1.50, thank you."

The lady's voice startled him out of his thoughts and Harry handed over the money and made his way over to a comfortable looking chair in the corner of the room. It still astounded him that the Malfoys actually spent their vacation at a Muggle skiing resort. For a family who put such importance in so-called "pure" blood, it was certainly odd that they spent their leisure time at a lodge run by the people they despised most of all.

He had to admit, though, the chairs were very comfortable.

Gazing around at the luxurious décor, Harry's eyes flicked back to the woman at the canteen. She must have felt his eyes upon her, for she turned around and flashed him another smile. It was then that he realised something. When he had first gone up to order, her eyes hadn't raked his hairline, hadn't widened in recognition. She didn't have a clue who he was, which meant that she wasn't just smiling at him because he was famous, because she felt she had to, because he was Harry Potter.

This new knowledge spread a warm, happy feeling all over his body. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.

***

Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Draco's gaze swept the scene, from the small children sliding around in their colourful skiwear to the instructors lazily threading their way through the amateurs, instructing their charges with practised politeness in their voices.

He had decided on a whim to abandon his usual solitary trails on the wild mountainside for the day and grace the beginner's slope with his presence. For all he loved the unspoiled beauty and peace those trails offered him, he just didn't feel as inclined to spend another day in beautiful solitude as he normally would be.

After all, the beginner's slope was not without its merits. Who wouldn't enjoy flashing their skills around those with inferior ones and seeing the envy and admiration light up their eyes? Draco Malfoy enjoyed feeling powerful and superior, and just because he was on vacation did not mean that he wasn't going to utilise every possible opportunity to feel this way.

Gracefully wending his way along the slopes (although they hardly qualified as slopes in his mind, more like slight lumps in the otherwise unnaturally flat ground) he snickered quietly at the dismal efforts of the beginner's class in front of him. The small group were learning the basics of skiing and were wobbling down one of the milder lumps. A teenage girl was emitting high-pitched squeaks of terror as she progressed downwards, although Draco's shrewd eyes observed her staring appreciatively up and down the body of the tanned instructor as he made his way over to help her. He couldn't blame her; the man was very good looking.

A piercing shriek cut through the air at that moment as the smallest person in the group, a young girl of perhaps eight, fell backwards and smashed into the snow. As her cries of genuine pain rang out over the area, Draco felt a pang of sympathy for the girl. Unkind as he could be, it pained Draco to see others hurting. Skiing over, he helped her to her feet.

"Are you alright?" This query was spoken unusually gently, the mellowness of his tone startling even him.

"Mummy!" The girl's cry for her mother brought Draco back to his senses, albeit leaving him feeling slightly wounded at the apparent fear he inspired in the child.

What was I thinking, helping up a common little mudblood like that? Next thing I know, I'll be rivalling Potter for do-gooder of the year.

Draco snickered at his joke and feeling much more like himself again, looked around for his next source of amusement. A group of teenagers clustered nervously at the top of a moderate rise seemed promising. Watching as the one at the fore of the group began to ski clumsily down the slope, he smirked to himself.

Time to flaunt my skills.

Wrapping his gloved fingers around the rope pull (what ridiculous contraptions Muggles invent to aid their laziness, he sneered) Draco allowed himself to be pulled to the top of the rise. It was a ridiculously small slope, even for beginners, but that didn't mean he couldn't still give these novices a taste of what real skiers could do.

Lithely slipping through to the front of the small crowd, Draco glanced coolly, appraisingly over the group, not wasting any time lingering over faces. If he had, perhaps things would have been different.

There are times when a lingering gaze, a turn of the head, a slight flush, a catching of breath can change your life forever. Those nuances can split destiny into countless winding paths, each one spellbinding, beautiful and different from the next. Each movement can create a rainbow castle of your wildest hopes and dreams then send it shattering to your feet the next.

If Draco had paused for just one more moment to actually see the faces of those people who he was looking at with such aloof disdain, maybe he would have fled from the snowfield and spent the rest of his holiday in his family's cabin, just to avoid those eyes and all he saw in them. But he didn't see them, not at that moment at least. And when he did, common sense overrode instinct, burying the truth beneath what was far more convenient to believe.

As it was, Draco stood elegantly at the fore of the group. Then, with seemingly effortless poise and grace he moved smoothly forwards and began slicing his way down the rise.

He was liquid beauty to watch. To compare the smooth, supple movements of his body to the awkward, faltering movements of the other skiers would be an insult to the intelligence of both. The beginner's mouths simultaneously dropped open in silent awe as he curved cleanly to the left, then swerved silkily to the right.

All except one was entranced by this display of prowess. The eyes of that one person burned with such fire that you could almost feel the heat radiating out of him, threatening to melt the freezing ice into broiling water. So intense was the stare that the boy didn't notice his skis sliding slowly forward until it was too late.

As he began to slide uncontrollably down the hill, he reached fruitlessly for his ski poles or anything that could stop his slippery descent. Rapidly gaining momentum, he began to shoot wildly down towards Draco, now desperately trying to control his movements but failing miserably. The frigid wind burned the tender skin on his face, staining it red raw as he continued his slippery descent. A strangled, inarticulate yelp escaped from his lips and it was that which made Draco, who had just slid calmly to a halt after a perfect run down the hill, finally turn around.

Shock was the only emotion evident in Draco's features as he saw the flailing mass dashing towards him.

With a sickening crack, Harry slammed into Draco and they were both forced backwards in a tangled mass of bodies and skis. The power of their collision was great, and Harry flew into a backwards somersault, Draco rolling along with him. As they landed in a knotted heap, all Draco could feel was pain. Searing, blinding pain, so much so that he couldn't think as he lay on the unforgiving ground, the other boy on top of him. The boy was radiating intense heat and Draco felt as if that heat was burning right to the very core of him. His skin on fire, he struggled weakly to free himself, which only served to create an excruciating pain in his muscles.

It was then that the boy turned his head and locked gazes with Draco. The layer of surprise and pain that was now flickering in those eyes was not enough to suppress the blazing fire that still flared in them. As they stared at each other time seemed to stand still, just for a fraction of a second.

Draco had seen that fire before, countless times. Whether it was scorching him from across the Quidditch pitch or the Great Hall, it always inspired the same reaction. Nothing else could produce such an intense surge of feeling in Draco, as if he was simultaneously burning and freezing, wildly happy but thunderously angry, surrounded by so many faces and yet so alone; no other person could provoke such emotions as he was feeling now.

He spat the question out, it couldn't be true, there was just no way.

"Potter?"

The slight widening of the boy's eyes was all that Draco saw before his body gave up the struggle to stay conscious and succumbed to the pain. His eyes closed, and the achingly bright landscape faded from his vision, to be replaced by cool, soothing darkness.

***

"Is it winter where you are
try to find me if you can

When it's over it's never over
And when it's empty it's never gone

But you, who do you think I am
Yes you, who do you say I am?"

***