Strange Love

Strange Love Chapter 3: Rethinking

Marcus Flint had fallen asleep on his dusty old couch without realizing it. When he woke up some time late in the afternoon, he began humming to himself and went about his usual business. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, and suited up in a casual set of robes. A cloud of gloom slowly crossed his face; he started to replay the events that had gone on earlier in the day.

"Shit," he muttered, as he began fooling with his hair. "I'm a dead man, isn't that peachy?" I told Seamus everything.

Veritaserum had got the better of him... It was in the coffee that Seamus made for me. I only never meant to tell him anything. Draco is going to kick my ass. He doesn't like people knowing where his house is.

Flint was not at all happy about the whole Seamus thing. Sure, he'd had some good sex, but he had just done something that Draco would hate him dearly for. Draco scared the pants off of him (sometimes even literally, but that's irrelevant, really). Draco would kill anyone in an instant, even a Death Eater. He was erratic and unpredictable and had quite a temper.

Flint glanced around. It looked as though Seamus had left a few hours ago, after he had fallen asleep. He couldn't remember exactly what he told Seamus, but he recalled Seamus smiling in satisfaction. Flint elected that he should try and forget about the whole fiasco until he got in trouble about in. He'd go clubbing tonight, to take his mind off the matter.

*

The room was a blur to Harry, who had spent the night trying to formulate some sort of plan. He was still under a curse and could move just enough to breathe, and he couldn't see five feet without his glasses. He was tired as he had not had any sleep during the night. He didn't want to close his eyes when he was in Malfoy's house--he never knew what might happen. Not that closing his eyes would have been much worse... he wasn't very productive without glasses.

Unexpectedly, a wrinkly little house elf thumped in though the door. He was carrying a wand, but he seemed to treat it like a smelly carcass, grasping it in the tips of two fingers. He stretched his hand out away from his body, so that the wand was as far away from him as it could possibly be while he was holding it. He had probably heard of poor Winky, now famous for sparking the House Elf Revolution...

The elf trotted to the bed in which Harry lay, and set the wand on the adjacent night stand, wincing as he peeked at the slender piece of wood. "Harry Potter, Master is wanting you to duel him. You is to meet him right away! You is to follow me, sir," he squeaked quite ecstatically.

"But... I can't exactly move," Harry protested.

"Master says the curse should have worn off by sunrise. Come Harry Potter!"

Harry rolled out of bed tentatively, straightened out his slightly wrinkled robes, and followed the house elf out of the room. His muscles throbbed as he moved.

He led Harry down a dark corridor, through a cleverly disguised door in the wall that appeared as a wooden panel, and down a dusty staircase made of white marble. He ended up in what looked like a lavish living room, filled with exotic furniture and sweeping tapestries. Malfoy was sitting stiffly on a blood-red couch, tapping his foot up and down on the ground. He rose slowly upon Harry's entrance.

"Ah, Harry darling. Curse worn off?" he asked, surveying Harry from head to foot in satisfaction. Tasty thing, isn't he? Maybe I'll nibble at him in the afterlife.

"Just about, thanks. Would you like to have a go?"

"Yes, actually. I'm sure Natty here," he tilted his head in the elf's direction, "has given you my message. We will duel. That's how it should be. Potter versus Malfoy, " he smiled.

"Why are you doing this, Malfoy? Why are you acting like you've got some sense of... some sense of valor for the first time in your life? I mean, I was shocked when your elf told me you wanted a duel after all..." Harry wondered aloud.

Malfoy's gray eyes seemed to be even duller than usual. The sky during a rainstorm would have been more jovial. He thought about the answer to Harry's wonderings, and proceeded to speak slowly and carefully so it had some chance of coming out properly. He might as well be honest, since either he or Harry was about to die in this duel. "I'm just tired of this whole thing. I'm tired of being a Death Eater, I'm tired of being feared. It's not better to be feared than loved, Harry, and you knew this a long time ago, but I'm just starting to figure this out. You knew because you've always been so god damn loved it's repulsive. I'm tired of being just like my father. That's all he wanted me to be. I'm a wealthy murderer, but who gives a shit? I'm alone. At least my father had a wife. I have no one." Draco stopped for a moment, wondering if he was making any sense. He decided he didn't care. He needed to speak to someone, even if it was someone he loathed. It occurred to him a shrink would have been better equipped for this, but no matter. "I hate who I've become. I want to be someone else... and I wonder... I don't know, Harry. You've got a lovely little life, with your lovely little scar, and your lovely little job, and your lovely little Ron and Hermione. You don't understand." Draco turned his head away. "I've challenged you to a duel. I'd like to fulfill my challenge, and I don't suspect that you'll argue. Now, let us begin. The Auror in pursuit of the Death Eater... how exciting." He stood up and positioned his wand.

A jumble of ideas raced through Draco's head at that moment; it felt like his heart was pounding against his chest twice as fast as usual. This was the second time he would duel Harry Potter, but this time it was real. He had a feeling they were going to duel to the bitter end. I'll win, easily, Draco said to himself.

He knew he'd win. He was Draco Malfoy and there simply wasn't space for losing. But, the question is... would killing him count as a win, or would dying count as a win? Somewhere in the back of his head, Draco wanted to die. Suicide. This would be the perfect suicide; he'd allow Harry to kill him. And the beautiful Harry Potter would live on; everyone would congratulate him on the kill, and then he'd go purge the world of Lord Voldemort. Nobody would remember Draco when it was all over, but at least he was going to die a man's death.

He could die, knowing that he finally did something half decent. Yes, that's it, I'll let Harry win. Kill me, show that you're able to kill some worthless piece of shit with a nice face...

Harry moved in closer to Draco, and position his own wand. He needed to strike first. Draco was quick, but Harry would be be quicker. He was used to being faster than his opponent.

He looked at the strong man standing before him. That's all Harry saw. A strong, arrogant man. He had a nice body, he had the purest hair, he had a perfectly angled jaw bone, and he had immaculate robes. Malfoy was almost too beautiful a creature to be an enemy.

"Yeah, he'll look better as a waxy corpse, he will," Harry muttered under his breath.

Harry flickered his wand hand, breathing the first curse that came to mind. It was some sort of yellow bolt of light, and it struck Draco on his right shoulder. Draco didn't move. He didn't even flinch, or blink. It was as though he wanted to die... does he want to die?

Thick crimson blood welled up from Draco's shoulder; his robes were slashed where the curse hit. He looked down at it. Blood began to saturate the smooth, black silk of his sleeve.

"My best robes..." Attack him, Draco, revenge...

Harry paused for a moment, wondering why Draco was standing there like a bewildered child. It didn't seem right. Nevertheless, Harry continued. He didn't care. Draco deserved to die. He was a killer. A Death Eater. A bigot. He'd devoted his whole life to hatred, and it was time it ended.

"Crucio," Harry shouted, wondering vaguely why he had chosen to use the Cruciatus curse. Draco's body froze up and began to twitch in mid air, his muscles tightened, and his knees gave out as he fell backwards. He landed on what appeared to be a crystal ball, which shattered under the weight of his fall. He felt sharp shards of glass dig into his back. They were cold and burning, and the fog-like substance from inside the broken crystal ball began to pervade his skin. It seeped into the cut on his arm, searing like nothing he'd felt before.

Draco's house elf was gaping with large red eyes, shaking. "M-master, oh, no, master," he stuttered, rushing to Draco's side.

Harry was about to strike again but paused, trying to avoid the elf. He looked down at Draco. That's how it should be. His kind should be looked down upon. Draco, meanwhile, began to scramble up to his feet. Shaky, he rested his left hand on the painted white wall.

Within moments, Draco had fallen to the floor, unable to withstand the Unforgivable Curse. "Bloody hell Harry, you've ruined my robes and my floor..." he whispered, a thin veil of sweat beading over his forehead. The formerly golden-brown wood on the floor was beginning to sink under a growing puddle of crimson spilling from Draco's damp skin.

Draco stopped struggling to stay conscious. Before he lost all sense of self, he began thinking to himself... Funny, just the other day the situation was reversed...

And then the distant ceiling above faded away, as if the victorian-patterned crown molding on the ceiling was slowly vaporizing.

Harry looked around, stunned. He felt heat rise to his cheeks. Heat of anger. He'd been cheated out of a decent duel. Draco surely wasn't dead, but what to do now? He supposed he could just leave the boy there, bleeding profusely on the floor, or perhaps he could put him to bed... but where was bed? He hadn't seen the part of the house Malfoy stayed in.

"Well?" He looked at Natty the house elf, waiting for some sort of answer to come about. "That wasn't a proper duel. He wanted to lose. Did you see him just stand there like a statue?"

Natty's big eyes opened and closed. He looked shocked that Harry had addressed him.

"Right, nice chatting with you as well," Harry muttered.

"Yes, sir. No sir, I mean. I mean, Master wanted Harry Potter to kill him in a duel, sir. But Harry Potter saw that, didn't he? Harry Potter is a kind wizard. Harry Potter not kill Master," he twittered.

"Let's put him on the couch. Maybe I'll phone Sirius. Let him know..." Harry felt around his waist and chest for the cellular phone Sirius had given him. Nothing. "Moron must have confiscated it. What would Draco Malfoy want with a Muggle communication device?" Harry flickered his wand at Draco and rose him up to a large, black velour couch. He carefully set Draco down, acutely aware of the stains about to accumulate upon the soft material.

"You know what I'll do now?" he whispered to Natty. "I'll have a look around. Get to know the place. It'll make things easier to manipulate."

Natty just looked back at Harry.

Harry had never been to such a place. He'd attended ostentatious Ministry balls and dinners and so forth, but Draco's mansion was the size of a large four star resort, it seemed. It was newer than Hogwarts and most of the traditional wizarding architecture in Hogsmeade; it looked as though Lucius has built the place himself. It was full of shadows, lit by orange and red flames floating in mid air--like candles without the actual candle, and furnished all in black, red, and gold fabrics. Velvet on the chairs, satin pillows, silk tassels on the drapes.

Harry was not familiar with Lucius, but he assumed there would be all sorts of enchantments lurking about, and grotesque Dark objects, perhaps dead bodies and carcasses...

No, Harry dear, don't be stupid, take Draco back to the Ministry right away and let them deal with him,he told himself. That was, after all, his assignment. He was to bring Malfoy to Fudge...

He set his eyes on Draco, lying in a heap, probably in some sort of immense, subconscious pain. His eyes were drawn, and his long lashes skimmed over his cheeks. The silvery hair on his head was disheveled, though usually mid-length and very tame. His face was a little waxy, and his red lips were opened slightly at the side. He seemed to unassuming. So innocent. So well dressed. Like some supercilious, high society young man whom people admired merely for his charisma.

What is wrong with me?

But Draco was beautiful. He had a gaunt, hungry look to him, dark shadows under his eyes and cheekbones... very defined cheekbones... Harry liked that...

Maybe I'll stay, just for a moment or two. Maybe I'll have a go at this gluttonous lifestyle, just to see what the fuss is about. Wonder if they've got escargot. Who eats that dung, anyway?

Then it was settled. Harry was a bit tired, anyhow, and he wasn't sure if he was strong enough yet to wander his way out of this labyrinth of a house.

"Happen to have a towel or cloth?" he asked Natty.

"Yes, sir, Right away sir."

"Thank you." Natty, shocked from hearing "thank you" came back within seconds, clutching a large burgundy towel, monogrammed "DLM" in swirled golden thread. Harry took the towel and stood over Draco in examination. His smooth shoulder was badly cut, and he had some scratches from the shattered crystal ball... perhaps he'd gone a little too hard on Draco. Harry pressed the towel to Draco's shoulder, trying to think of the best spell to undo a blood stain.

His mind kept disobeying him, and he never thought of any spells. He couldn't stop kicking himself for not realizing that Draco was merely trying to get himself killed. He was supposed to know these things. And even though his job was to kill Draco, he couldn't do just that now. It would allow Draco a triumph. I don't understand this creature, and I'm sure I never will...

Harry dropped himself into a large suede covered armchair and watched the early morning shadows pour in from the windows, slinking over the unconscious Draco. He was in bad shape, Harry thought, all cut up and limp, but it could be worse.

*

Seamus Finnigan didn't notice the slimy feel of unwashed clothing against his skin. He hadn't been home to change for a while now. When he had snuck away from Flint, he elected to go straight into some secluded countryside, where he was hoping to stumble upon Draco Malfoy's mansion.

He knew, in the back of his mind, that it wasn't going to be such a simple process. He jotted down any words that he'd coerced out of Flint with the Veritaserum, and he replayed them over and over to himself. He knew where the mansion was, longitude and latitude wise, but it wasn't the sort of place he could just walk up to...

In the mean time, he Apparated to the Three Broomsticks. His mouth was dry, lips cracked, and still tasted of Marcus Flint. The obvious solution was to order a drink or two.

He pulled open the door and made his way over to Madam Rosmerta. She eyed him suspiciously like she did of every customer these days. She could never be too sure whether or not someone was who they led on to be.

When Seamus approached her, he suddenly forgot to remember that he was thirsty. What did it matter if he had a drink? Dean Thomas was dead. Dead. Gone, killed, lying on the ground. Draco Malfoy had killed him. Mother fucker. For no fucking reason.

"Can I help you? Anything, Finnigan?" Madam Rosmerta persisted. Seamus' eyes had gone glassy, as if he was seeing something between the molecules of oxygen in the air. "All right? No? What's gotten into you, Seamus?" she asked, inching away as if there was something to fear of this strange behavior.

Madam Rosmerta watched as Seamus suddenly turned around and walked out the door.

"Haven't you heard?" a slimy voice muttered from her left side. The voice belonged to Mr. Adrian Pucey, who amused himself all over town building up rumors about Voldemort and the Death Eaters.

"Heard what? I mean, I suppose I haven't, in that case," Rosmerta replied.

"His best friend was killed by a pair of Death Eaters. A clean kill. Flawless. Must've known what they were doing, those Death Eaters..." he smirked and chuckled, revealing a mouth full of yellowing teeth.

A short haired, clean cut, half-giant poked his nose in on the conversation. He vaguely resembled Rubeus Hagrid. Something was missing: the awful clothing, the bushy hair, the pink umbrella. A newly boasted crew cut adorned his face, and some sort of decent-smelling cologne was distributed over him. He sported cotton, olive green robes and had a slender wand tucked in his lower left pocket.

"Hagrid! How are you?" Madam Rosmerta gushed upon seeing her most loyal customer. She eyed him devilishly. He looked so much better ever since he tied the knot with that French headmistress... she must have whipped him into shape, fixed that mane of hair, picked out a nice set of robes...

"Not bad, how about yerself?"

She sigh, throwing back her head in exasperation. "Business is slow. Not a lot of people come into Hogsmeade these days, and nobody has the desire to loaf around socializing when they've got to keep a watchful eye. Not to mention, nobody has the money to spend... had to lower the price of everything I sell..."

"Must be awful, not being wealthy. I wouldn't know," Adrian Pucey chanted, shying away from Hadrid in disgust. He took a barbaric gulp of beer.

"Mus' be awful, being so awful," Hagrid muttered. "And yeh seem well informed about these Death Eaters, don't yeh, old Pucey?"

"Watch out, or I'll have them after you," he whispered, lowering his chin and flashing dark eyes at Hagrid. He arose from his seat and moved hastily out of the Three Broomsticks, his long robes flowing behind him like a shadow.

Seamus was still outside, idly gazing at the stones on the sidewalk. How nice it must have been to be a stone. Stones didn't murder each other. Stones were peaceful creatures. Stones didn't die.

"Pardon me," Adrian Pucey told Seamus, as he most mistakenly shouldered Seamus on his way out.

*
Draco narrowed his eyes, trying to sharpen his misty vision. He remembered dueling Harry... he'd been hit with a curse--landed on the antique crystal ball that had once belonged to Circe herself and had been rather expensive--cut up his back...

He shot to an upright position. He was in his own bedroom, tucked tightly under his white duvet. His robes had been removed. Draco shivered slightly; he was bare, save for a small pair of red boxers... His right shoulder was wrapped in bandages, so far as he could make out, and Natty was there with him, pouring a glass of water. Harry, to where had Harry run off? He was probably long gone, at the Ministry, telling those useless wizards everything...

Natty approached, and reached up to Draco, feeding him water. Draco was not thirsty and coughed it out, rather than swallow.

"Where is he?" he demanded, rising from his bed.

"Master Potter, sir?"

Draco said nothing. He glanced at himself in one of the many unframed, rectangular mirrors he had hanging on his wall. "I look like piss," he assessed, and wandered through an archway leading to his bathroom.

"Master Potter is good wizard. He spared Master Malfoy his life. I give him food and drink. He stays here."

"What? You're shitting me... still here? Can't resist me, can he?" Draco rummaged into a slender cabinet by his bathroom sink and pulled out a Mason Pearson hairbrush (genuine Knarl bristles). He began tidying up his silver strands of hair when three knocks sounded from his bedroom door.

Harry walked in, assuming Draco was still unconscious. "Ah. So you've decided to get off your arse, finally?"

Draco put down his hairbrush, and turned to Harry. "Yes, you can imagine, I was unconscious and struck with the urge to awaken so I could have a chat with some bloody Auror. I hate Aurors, you know that?"

"Bad experience as a child? Did an Auror turn wittle Malfoy into an animal?"

"That was not an Auror. I do hate you blokes, though. Always chasing feebly after Death Eaters."

"How are your scrapes?" Harry wondered, occupying himself with a dried up skull sitting un Draco's mantle.

"Oh, they're fucking wonderful. Thanks for being so concerned."

"Don't mention it. Well, I did a fine job of dressing them, didn't I?"

Draco shrugged, wincing. "I'll give you credit for that..." He looked down at himself, "And you've somehow managed to undress me, haven't you?"

Harry felt a hot rush into his cheeks. Oh, don't blush, you blasted cheeks, you... "Er, I wasn't--er, no, I... didn't know how else to go about things," he prattled. "Sorry."

"Sorry? Didn't expect that from you. Well, Potter; when in doubt, undress your opposition. There won't be any place to hide. I s'pose it's all right, then, if your sorry..."

"Wouldn't think you'd've minded, Malfoy."

"I don't. With arms like these..." he cooed, looking down at his artfully crafted triceps. And he certainly didn't have smooth that six pack for the hell of it; these things were meant to be seen and ooed and ahhed.

"They are nice," Harry noticed, nodding in approval. "Work out much?"

"Naturally. You?"

"Couldn't go on without my membership to the gym. I find it really helps... with work... intimidates Dark Wizards. Or, at least, more so than some scrawny bloke..."

"Membership to the gym," Draco echoed. "Pity. I've got my own gym, you know."

"Bet you work hard for all this money, don't you, Malfoy? Arrogant arsehole."

"Thanks. I've always wanted to be one of those." Draco slumped onto the side of his bed. Harry's eyes followed him. "Sorry."

"Why, pray tell, are you sorry? You don't get sorry. You don't give a damn."

"I'm fucking sorry that I've always been an arrogant asshole. I'm sorry you're to compassionate--or whatever you call it--to finish me off. I'm sorry all I have in my possession is a load of galleons," Draco told him in a breath.

"That's what you want," Harry reminded him.

"To hell with it. Don't even tell me what I want. Or do. I don't know. I don't know what I want, how should you? Oh, mind your own damn business. Oh, piss off already," Draco threw his head onto his feather pillow, "ahhing" breathlessly in pain and arching his back, as he'd managed to land on a scratch or two.

"I wasn't asking. You volunteered."

Draco lay there, idle. He hated when Harry had a point. Harry tried helplessly to occupy himself as awkward silence ensued. He noticed the numerous mirrors hung about Draco's wall, aligned so that each mirror reflected into itself infinitely. Then he became quite interested with a crow that had been flapping around outside the window.

"Harry?" Draco had taken to staring at the ceiling.

"What?"

"You're a faggot, aren't you."

"Fuck off."

"Just say so, and I will," Draco sniggered.

"That has no relevance to anything whatsoever."

"Well, I'm wondering why you've stayed at my house, when, all this time, you could've just left? And I'm wondering about all those photos in your wallet. You know, the ones with you and that skinny guy with the leather pants. Leather pants... how Muggle."

Harry felt around his robe pockets once again, and realized his wallet was missing.

"And," Draco persisted, "Why did you suddenly realize that Cho Chang--that girl from Hogwarts that you dated for a while--why did you suddenly realize you had no interest in her one day? Don't be shy, darling."

"I said fuck off," Harry muttered.

"Why are you being difficult?"

No matter how much he'd deny it, Harry couldn't help but stare at Draco. He'd thought him to be quite lovely since he'd beat him up in the duel. It appalled him, yet he couldn't get it out of his head... Draco Malfoy is hot.

"I'm not being difficult. He isn't a Muggle, anyhow," Harry informed Draco.

"Who?"

"The 'skinny guy with the leather pants.' He was educated at a small French wizarding school. Met him when he came to London on business--he happens to be a top broomstick craftsman," Harry jabbered, unaware of the way he had allowed himself to talk so much.

"Oh, how sweet."

"Mind your own business, Malfoy," Harry muttered.

"You volunteered, darling," Draco chanted.

"Don't 'darling' me. And don't hassle me about being a faggot. You know very well you are."

"Eh? No, not Draco Malfoy. I do pull off leather pants better than that bloke, what did you say his name was?"

"I didn't," Harry began, "It's Laurent."

"Right. Well, I'm not gay. I'm sexually liberated. Er, bi. It's really much better that way. More opportunities."

"Yeah. I used to think I was as well. Alas, I am not."

"Ah, well, what's a wizard to do?"

Draco stretched out on his bed, yawning. Harry continued to look at the Death Eater. Draco glared at him with wet, gray eyes. "We've a lot more in common than I would ever imagine."

"It's always been this way. How grotesque. I used to think about that back in school sometimes. You know. We both played Seeker, we were both Prefects--"

"We both had a bunch of losers at our heels."

"Ah, that isn't so. My friends are not losers," Harry noted angrily.

"Of course not."

"Technically," Harry started, deciding to get down to business, "I have won the duel. Therefore, you are under arrest."

"I often wonder what it's like to be over arrest. And what are you going to do, Potter darling? You are stranded in my house with no knowledge of how to escape. You can either stay here or stay here. If you kill me, you'll never find your way out. If you don't kill me, you'll be living as a prisoner. I have a nice set up, wouldn't you say?"

"And I have people who care when I'm gone. People who won't have any trouble finding this place," Harry said smugly.

"Oh, I'm Harry Potter, I have friends, and they love me. Fuck you Harry."

"Same to you." He called me by my first name... we're on first name terms?

"Natty, I really could use some vodka. You, Harry?"

"I don't drink," he told Malfoy disapprovingly.

"Sure you do."

"There is a time for working, and a time for drinking. They don't mix well."

Draco wrinkled his nose. "Well, Natty, what are you waiting for, the Dark Lord to destroy Albus Dumbledore? It's going to take a while. So bring something, will you?" Natty pranced off. "Are you still here on business, Harry? I mean, you might as well have taken me off by now. But you are still here."

"Business. This is business. So let us get down to business. Take me out of here. It could help you in court. You know; less time in Azkaban."

"Oh, Harry! Don't make me go to Azkaban. Don't waste this perfectly beautiful boy on that. Come on, don't try and tell me you don't want to fuck me right now. I can see it written all over, Mr. Potter. Draco is so beautiful, I could just eat him up."

"Tempting. Quite. But I'll get on fine without you, thanks. Sorry, I've just seen better. Ever been to San Francisco? I was there looking for a rogue ministry wizard once--and they have gorgeous wizards running all over. Ahem, where was I? Ah, yes. Let's get the hell out of here, Malfoy," Harry stated firmly.

"You'll try the front door, naturally, and you'll find that once your hand touches the knob, you will feel an odd biting sensation, as if someone were gnawing at your skin. Then you will look down to find that the doorknob does actually gnaw at your skin and that you are missing a large patch of this skin. Just a tip."

"Interesting. This might be fun, you know?"

"It'd be more fun if you just gave it up--at least for a while--and stayed with me. I know we have bad history, but we could work things out."

Harry wondered why Malfoy had a sudden desire to convince him to stay. Malfoy probably figured it would buy him some time. Or maybe he thought that if he could befriend Harry, Harry wouldn't give him to the Ministry.

"Of course we could work things out. You being the friendly old guy you are. Have you not forgotten that we are enemies?"

"We are. But enemies can still have fun. Why not toss that whole enemy thing aside and have a good time? Do you prefer cotton bedsheets or silk?" Draco asked glumly. He wondered if he was fighting a losing battle.

Harry sunk himself down next to Draco on the fluffy bed. He looked at the Death Eater in silence. He suddenly felt an inexplicable yearning to sweep over Draco's hands... as if he wanted to be sure that Draco was indeed alive. Does he even feel?

Without thinking, Harry's left hand slipped away from him, and two fingers slid over Draco's right hand. He traced the protruding dark blue veins, so clear through Draco's cream colored skin...

"What crimes have these hands committed to make them so cold?" Harry wondered aloud, noticing the contrast between his own warm flesh and Draco's icy hand.

Draco became paralyzed. He couldn't utter such words to anyone, ever. He had to contain all wrongdoings within himself... "Get away from me. Get the hell away," Draco whispered.

"Well, I'm curious now, and I don't plan on going five feet until you say something. I want to know. What makes a person so lonely? What coerces you to hate things the way you do? Why do you hate me?"

"You could have had everything, and you refused it. How stubborn. Do you know what I'd give to speak Parsletongue? Or be the only surviving Avada Kedavra victim? Do you realize how much power you could have had? Of course you don't. You don't want power. To me, power is strength. But you... and your kind... power is not strength. You have some twisted idealist definition of power. You probably think yourself to be a powerful wizard, Harry, or at least, a powerful character. Far too good a person for me. You've always thought that you were too good for me, you know that? Big shot. You haven't got half of what I have, and you're too good for me. I tried to offer my friendship, but you rudely dismissed me like I was some sort of... Mudblood. I don't understand you, Potter, and I really don't care whether I do or not."

Harry withdrew his fingers. He didn't like the feel of Draco's skin. It made him shiver, in spite of the heat of the sun pouring down through the window.

"Well, I am too good for you, aren't I? No, it's not because I can speak Parsletongue, it's not because I think I'm stronger than you are. I'll tell you why. You are a rotten excuse for a wizard. You think you have everything, but you're the most jealous person I've met."

"You haven't met my father."

"Is that some sort of excuse?"

"If you'd like it to be."

Harry was flustered. "I wouldn't like anything right now. Except maybe some vodka. Where is your god damn elf?

"You're funny, Harry. Look at you," Draco nodded at the direction of one of his wall mounted mirrors. "You're seemingly ugly. Very skinny and bony, and your scar. But my eyes don't want to tear away from you. Enchanting. You're very pretty, Harry, but you just don't... feel right. When I saw you in Knockturn Alley, I was... blushing, to say the least. You've changed since Hogwarts. For the better. I thought maybe we could start over, but you're being stupid."

Natty stumbled in with the drinks, and Draco poured two glasses for him and Harry.

"Have a drink," he said, and handed the drink to Harry.

"Thank you. Damn, I just thanked you."

Draco smiled. "It's all right. I can be a nice boy, too."

Harry drank his vodka very promptly before hinting at the desire for another glass. Draco shook his head. "We're not getting drunk."

"You're quite right, I suppose. That would be messy."

"Mmm."