Winter Sunlight

~ Winter Sunlight ~

LMR211

Draco had first realized it the day he'd seen Potter's scars. No, not the one on his forehead, that infuriating spectacle graced his field of vision far too often for his liking. He'd seen the scars on the other boy's arms.

It was a cold potions class because when the rest of the school was freezing, the dungeon temperatures were downright Arctic and right now it was mid January with a bright sun shining down as though mocking their coldness, with its rays leaving none of the desired warmth on their skin. Draco usually didn't notice the weather, but he had been woken early that morning by Goyle's snores and was unable to sleep again, so he took a walk. Needless to say, the impression stayed with him the rest of the day.

Like most of the class, Potter was wearing layers, the weight of which dragged his robe sleeve down much lower than usual when he'd reached for something on the upper shelves of the supply cupboard, almost on his tiptoes. It was other boy's pitiful height that had drawn his attention and he was going to remark on it when he saw what Potter's traitorous sleeve had revealed. Running all along his forearm were scars. Some months old, scabbing slightly or just pale pink lines but most of them seemed fresh, one still bleeding slightly.

His initial emotion had been shock, not that he let it show. Most people thought there was some "Malfoy Rule Book" that dictated lack of emotion, but this trait was self-inflicted. He liked the sense of freedom and cunning it gave him. He could be thinking about anything from drowning himself in the lake to Pansy's bad fashion sense while Professor McGonagall droned on about how to turn a pig into an armchair or some such nonsense and no one need ever know. He was kind of like the winter sunlight, glowing with life, but never warming with feelings. It was a simple coincidence that most of the other people in his family, well, all of Slytherin for that matter, felt the same way.

His second emotion had been too odd to fall into the usual categories. In fact, it might not have been an emotion at all, more of just a connection. He remembered the scars that were on his arms. One in particular: it was coal black and shaped like a skull. The other ones were from that summer. Most people cut themselves to let out numbed motional pain in a physical manner, just to feel it, other do it to feel accepted by those who cut themselves for the former reason. Draco wasn't like them; he enjoyed the action for the simple joy of proving wrong whoever had made up cutting stereotypes. It took more than spite though, to mar his beautiful creamy skin. Deep down, he probably was letting out some emotional pain that was so numb that he eventually forgot about it or stopped admitting it to himself, but mostly, he just liked to see the blood flowing down his arm and to taste it on his tongue.

He wondered what had happened to Potter that made him feel so upset, sure, his godfather was dead, but what about the millions of other people that loved him? Besides, Potter had always seemed more...optimistic. Bleh. Just saying the word made Draco sick, as it usually conjured up the image of a fat, jovial Muggle with a beard slapping his knee and laughing quite drunkenly about something incredibly ignorant. Potter just wasn't grateful for what he had, and what's worse, he was taking it out on himself. At least Slytherins were smart enough to find some sneaky way out of getting the blame placed upon them, even if it was their fault, which was generally the case.

Finally, he came to his senses and made a rude comment, which he thought had an accurate point and what did Potter do? Take his useful advice, cunningly given in insult form? No, he made a repulsively ignorant comment about Draco's sex life! God, some people really are as stupid as they look, and his indignant anger soon pushed away the nameless feeling between him and the other boy, but it did not completely dispose of it.

That night, Draco couldn't sleep. He opened his trunk and took out his Invisibility Cloak and a silver dagger with the Malfoy crest engraved on the handle. Silently, he slipped out of the Slytherin dungeons and through the castle to a seemingly deserted corridor. Quickly, he poked his head in what he hoped was an empty room, not that it mattered much since he was invisible, and saw Potter sitting cross-legged on a desk. A kitchen knife was poised over his arm, a deep look of pained concentration was written on his features and his eyes were jade pools of sorrow. Slowly, Draco slipped out, fleeing as quietly as he could to a more secluded part of the castle.

He sat, deep in thought, in a room in another empty corridor a few floors above the first, running over the scene he'd just witnessed while slicing open his arm. He gleefully watched the crimson liquid leave a trail over his light skin. The contrast was beautiful, reminding him of some famous work of art.

Draco came back, every night after that, and Potter was always there, with the same look on his face and knife in his hand. Draco stood by his first opinion of the situation. Potter didn't know what he had; he was experiencing everything Draco wished for every day, yet still he threw it to the wind for his massive ego to wallow in self-pity. He was famous, loved, respected, listened to, and needed. Not to mention he had tons people wanting to get close to him!

That's it! There must be some secret to keeping fame, it can't all be some twist of fate. If he got close to Potter than he would be famous as well, in time learn the secret, and become a respected member of the Dark Lord's ranks. He could easily shake off the Gryffindor reputation that he would earn from his new position by handing the other boy over to his Lord. Slytherin cunning works again.

He decided to put his plan into action that night, knowing just how to attract his prey: pain. This time, he left the knife and Cloak hidden carefully inside his trunk, his prefect badge in an obvious spot near the center of his chest. Right where Potter would notice it when he looked up. He stealthily crept through the school, just like always, but this time much more aware of Filch and the teachers because now he could be caught. Finally, he approached his destination and his heart began to beat more wildly than before in complete nervous pandemonium. With a deep intake of breath, he opened the doorknob and crossed the threshold.

He saw Potter freeze and hurriedly look up. "Caught in the act, Potter," he drawled lazily. Potter stared at him looking sheepish and fearful. "Let me see your arm, Potter, I'm sure your precious headmaster would love to hear about what his beloved Golden Boy has been doing to himself lately," he continued in the same tone. Grinning, the other boy rolled up his sleeves, a sly look in his eye. God, Potter's an idiot, doesn't he know I can simply just reverse the charms?

"See Malfoy? There's nothing there."

"Finite Incantatem."

His forearm was instantly covered with scars. Suddenly, the indescribable emotion, the connection, came back. Now Draco knew what that connection was: lust. Although shallow for others, this was as deep as Draco went; he never fell in love. How could he have been this close to Harry the whole time and not known it? In that instant he decided what he wanted.

He shoved his lips onto the dark haired boy's, most likely bruising, but wasn't that what Potter wanted? Draco felt Harry slip his tongue into his mouth and bit down forcefully, taking it to the next level. He could feel the blood seep out of the spot where his teeth had made contact, filling Draco's mouth with the scarlet warmth he was so familiar to. Harry followed his lead and clamped his teeth onto the blonde's lower lip, causing the dark liquid to flow. In unison, they both pulled away and looked into each other's eyes. For the first time Draco knew his face betrayed him. His last thought before pulling Harry down for another kiss was that maybe he wasn't so much like that winter sunlight after all.