But What About Potter?

Draco had always been fascinated by the written word. Obsessed, really. His especial talent, and the one that he had spent years honing, was finding just the perfect word to describe each of the people in his life. Whenever he met someone new, one of his father's colleagues, for example, he delighted in meticulously analyzing them until that word could be found. And up until now, he had always succeeded. Up till he had met Potter, that is.

Potter was totally different than anyone else Draco had ever met. In Madam Malkin's shop, the word that had first come to mind was shy. But no, that wasn't right, as Draco later learned on the train. Potter had stood up to him, refused his hand, refused his friendship. Shy was incorrect, then. Perhaps willful would be more appropriate. And for a while willful seemed to suit the Golden Boy. However, later that year had come the incident with the Stone, and Potter had ended up in the Hospital Wing. Draco had gone to visit him - know thine enemy, all and that rot - and had seen just how alone Potter really was. He lay there asleep, his breathing deep and regular, eyelids fluttering in some unknown dream, and a quiet frown on his face, as though sleep was just another thing he had to concentrate on. He may have had the Mudblood and the Weasleys to stand by him, but they weren't family, really. So Potter's new word had been vulnerable.

And so it went, on and on. Second year had mostly been strong, but in third year it had changed once again to frightened, after the encounter with the Dementors, you know. Fourth year had seen the word replaced first with panicky and then with tortured. Draco was not a fool. He had seen the look on Potter's face as he had left the maze, Diggory's lifeless body in his arms. He was positively haunted by some gruesome phantasms visible only to him. That was how he had known that Dumbledore spoke the truth at the leaving feast - Voldemort had indeed risen again. What else could cause Potter to look like that? Fifth year was entirely different. Potter was first irritating, simply because he got on Draco's nerves. With the arrival of Umbridge, though, it had changed once again to become defiant, with a quick stop in between at fearless.

It was sixth year now, and October besides. Two months into the school year Draco still hadn't found the word for Potter, but he seemed to be reverting to his tortured stage, although volatile was a good bet too. He was losing his temper so often this year; it was a wonder he hadn't been thrown out already. Conversely, he sometimes drew so deep within himself that not even Weasel and the Mudblood could bring him back. He seemed to be crumbling from within, as he sat in stony silences for hours on end, or rocked back and forth endlessly in classes, recalling some raw remembrance, vision turned inward. It was disconcerting, to say the least. By early December Draco had decided that perhaps the word for Potter was mad. But considering how often Potter's personality was shifting these days, who knew how long this stage would last!

It was infinitely frustrating, playing this guessing game with Potter, trying to keep up with his whirlwind emotions. The boy was exasperating, infuriating, and oh, so tempting. He always seemed to be just beyond Draco's grasp, just out of his reach, and it was both tiring and thrilling. No one had ever proven this much of a challenge before, and Draco was determined not to give up before he discovered just what it was that made Potter so special. It was a high stakes game, and neither could afford to lose.

The end of December saw a marked change in Potter, and an unexpected one at that. He was back to his old self, the insufferable git, taunting Draco in classes and in the hallways and at mealtimes. It was somewhat relieving, truth be told, because Draco had grown frightened of the increasingly intense looks Potter was directing his way. They were riveting and foreign and... something else. They had given him shivers, for one of the first times in Draco's cultured life. But those looks were done now, because obviously Potter had realized that it was wrong, the attraction between them. It was not meant to happen like that, and so it wouldn't.

Draco found himself thinking this one lonely midnight in January, and was shocked to hear a small sob escape from his throat. He had been so close, so close, he had thought, to discovering Potter's word. But there was no way he would ever know it now, because Potter wasn't letting him in anymore. The Potter he showed the world wasn't the real one, because he knew the real one better than anyone else. He had spent six years of his life studying the boy, after all. The real Potter was kind and gentle and fierce and proud and good and... everything. And everything! Potter was the whole world, his whole world! A world that he had spent years making only to have it come crashing down right before his eyes. Another sob escaped, but no tears came. They never did.

Light footsteps in the corridor alerted him to the presence of another person. He knew at once who it would be. Who it had always been.

"Malfoy," the familiar voice greeted him cordially.

"Potter." Draco peered up at him, a determined glint in his eye, ready to fight if need be. "Can I help you?"

"Yes." Potter slid down the wall awkwardly to sit beside him. "Yes, I think you can help me. In fact, you may be the only one who can."

The slight catch in Potter's voice hinted at a deeper, almost heartbreaking sincerity. "What about the other two members of your trio?" Draco asked bitterly. "No good to you anymore, are they?"

Potter stared at him intently, leaving Draco with a pleasant, prickly feeling creeping up his back. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

Draco sighed. "I know." He hesitated a moment, then said, voice wavering treacherously, "I need you, you know. I have all year and you haven't been with me and it hurts." He drew a shaky breath. He was not, after all, used to being hurt, especially not by someone so dear to him. Someone like Potter.

Now it was Potter's turn to say, "I know. I had to, though - don't you see? I had to. But I'll never do it again, never, never." And with that he leant forward to capture Draco's lips in a fiery kiss, still murmuring, "Never," under his breath desperately.

And in that moment of absolute clarity, Draco knew exactly what Potter's word was, now and for all eternity. Potter - no, because he was finally Harry - Harry was his.

On the wings of a breath, Draco whispered contentedly.

"Mine."