Artful Facade

I don’t think I can love him.

It’s summer.

I’m at Malfoy Manor. I hate it here. The rooms are stuffy and the servants lie to you. Father is horrible to the servants. He makes them smile. They come into my room and draw the curtains and smile to me and say good morning but I know really that they mean none of it, that they’re thinking of their measly paycheck and of Father’s menacing glare. Not that I blame them. He’s paying them, after all, and insincerity is worth a lot these days. Sincerity is worth even more but nobody seems to have enough guts to pay for it. I know I don’t. Mostly.

Sometimes I think maybe I might risk it, might have the balls to say what I mean and mean what I say. I wouldn't intimidate others with lies. I wouldn't glare at those I deem beneath me, wouldn't use sarcasm as a dagger to cut at those I love and hate. I would be honest. I would smile, genuine real smiles. I would be happy, the kind of happiness that stems from your own behavior, rather than the behavior of those around you. For a moment the world is full of new choices.

I could be all those things. I could be someone different. Weak. Scared. But happy, oddly satisfied in being able to walk down Hogwarts halls without eyes of others sliding away from mine in avoidance. People looking at me, really looking at me, without fear. Silent gazes shyly meeting mine, offering a pure unguarded look in the other's eyes. Yes, for a moment all of this seems like it could truly happen, like I could know the real eyes of many. It is a moment full of possibilities, that of which I have never seen. These moments occur only when I’m looking at the eyes of one boy.

Guess who he is.

Right.

And then I look away and everything is as it was and I’m safe again. The eyes of others are shrouded. The world is normal and nothing is shifting and I’m on solid ground once more, ground that I grew up on. That’s why I try to look away. Sometimes, people act like possibilities are good things. Not always. Possibilities lead to choices, choices I could never make. And so, to avoid such a situation, I try to look away. I break my gaze with his for my own well-being.

Don’t call me a coward. Really, it has nothing to do with cowardice. It has to do with expectations and preconceptions. I must play up to my part, not lose myself in a sea of muddled lines and endless eyes and damned choices over what is good and bad, right and wrong. It has to do with this damn facade that I'm forever stuck in, this act, this performance. And over dramatic as it may be, the curtains are never going to close, not until the day I die.

I pray that there’ll never be an encore.

He told me once that he wanted us to change. He said he prayed to the stars every night that everything between us would go away. Like magic. Hogwarts is full of magic, maybe it’ll happen.

He was always hoping for things to change. He told me that too. I never wish for things to change because every time I try, I instead remember how the world looked through his eyes. His world is simple and straightforward and people were good. Even after all the time he's spent with me, the Cynic, he still believes that the smiles of others are real, that sincerity is free.

He lives in a world that I can’t imagine. Believe me, I’ve tried. It’s a world I’ll never belong to, because even when I knock on the door, they never let me in.

So I look through the window instead. It’s just my horrible luck that the window happened to be in the eyes of a boy named Harry Potter.

~~~

It was resounding, the shouts of Hogwarts staff and students. Draco could not hear the shouts but he could see them, echoing in the ears of his fellow Slytherin players. There was something else resounding in Draco’s mind. Disgust, he thought, and hatred. Hatred that drowned out the sound of everything else around him.

He turned back, looked at Harry Potter. He was with the Weasley girl. Well that wasn’t any surprise. Ginny was tenderly touching the bruises on Harry’s face, asking him what had happened.

“Nothing, Gin. Malfoy, that’s all. Being his usual self. He tried to knock me off my broom again.”

Draco turned away. He slowly began to follow the rest of his teammates.

“But he didn’t!” came the Weasley girl’s voice, floating towards him mockingly, veiled in sweetness. “You got him in the end. You won, Harry!” She giggled. “You look stunned. Don’t you realize what has happened?”

The Slytherin team went back to the locker room to change back into their school robes. Draco stared emotionlessly at his hands, the Quidditch match playing in his head over and over again, painfully slow motion inserting itself into all the particularly humiliating parts. The team eventually filtered out of the locker room. Draco remained. Finally, quietly, Draco changed out of his Quidditch robes and put away his broom.

“Next year,” he told it. “Don’t worry. Next year, the championship will be Slytherin’s.”

“It better be,” a voice said darkly.

Draco whirled around. “Dad!” he said in shock. “What are-”

“I came to watch the game, son, naturally,” Lucius Malfoy said. “I came to...cheer you on.”

“How nice of you,” Draco snapped.

“I thought so myself.” Lucius smiled. “But I’m rather disappointed. In fact,” Lucius took a deep breath, “very disappointed. Draco, I have bought you the best in brooms. I have given you the best in Quidditch instructors.”

Draco waited. He crossed his fingers, hoping that Lucius would erupt, would tell him off.

“It’s interesting,” Lucius said very softly, “how you choose to repay me. Very interesting.”

Draco sighed. Quiet anger was the most dangerous kind with his father, and so he chose his words with the utmost care.

“You bastard, I didn’t ASK for Potter to catch the Snitch! I didn’t ASK to lose the damn game! Don’t make me feel guilty for losing! I tried my best and-”

“Perhaps you should have tried better than that!” Lucius said. “You should have done whatever it takes! It came down to you and Harry Potter. You caved, Potter won. What if that happened on a-” Lucius suddenly went silent.

Draco nodded wearily. “What if that happened on a mission for Voldemort, you were about to say? You worry that if I... have to do things for Voldemort, I won’t do them?”

“I worry that if it comes between you and Potter you’ll become intimidated by our little hero and back out.” Lucius stepped closer. “I need to know,” he whispered, “that on or off the Quidditch field you will do whatever it takes to win.”

“Why are you really here, Father?” Draco said. “And no bull about wanting to watch the game. I know you better than that.”

“But you always were a clever boy, weren’t you?” his father said fondly, suddenly rid of all his intensity and filled again with fatherly love. He tousled Draco’s hair. “Yes, you really are intelligent, I don’t see why you’re not at the top of all your classes. I hear a Mudblood is still ranking first in your year at Hogwarts now. Crazy business, that. You mustn’t allow it, my boy! If those Muggles get it into their heads that they’re better than us...well, it’ll make showing them otherwise far more painfully difficult, for both parties.”

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to look at your school grounds. I’ve heard that the maintenance on Hogwarts has not been up to standard in the least. But then, what do you expect with a beast like Hagrid taking care of things? I was going to file a complaint with Dumbledore but it seems that technically there is nothing wrong with the place. So, as it turns out, my little inspection was a fruitless one.”

“Father, I want the truth.”

“And I gave it to you. Just now. I wasn’t even going to tell you about it, in fact I was planning to leave as if I had never come but...well, I saw the end of that game and I had to express my disappointment in you.”

“Ah. Yes. Humiliate me further before leaving, can’t pass that one up.”

“Honestly, Draco, what has gotten into you? We give you everything you want, your mother and I do. We ask for only a little in return. Win a Quidditch game here and there. Get good grades. Bring a bit of honour to the family, for God’s sake.”

No way of getting out of this one. “I will, Father,” Draco drawled.

“I mean, is that really so much to ask?”

“No, Father. If only Dumbledore wasn’t such a mudblood-lover I’d be at the top of all my classes.”

“And would win all my Quidditch games,” Lucius prompted.

“And would win all my Quidditch games.”

“Good. Right then, I’d better be off.”

“You’re sure you have...nothing else to tell me, Father?” Draco asked respectfully.

“Nothing for you to worry yourself about, my boy,” Lucius said briskly. “At least, not yet.”

Without another word he walked out.

“Good bye,” Draco called bitterly after him. He fled to his dorm and slammed the door behind him. It helped, but only a little.

~~~

“Help me! Someone help me, please...” Harry heard the desperate plea. His head shot up and he ran to the source of the cry.

It was Neville. He was kicking at his suitcase.

“Help!” he said again. “This thing-” Kick. “-won’t close.” Kick. Spotting Harry he looked up quickly. “Oh, hullo Harry.”

“Need any help?”

“Yes,” Neville admitted gratefully. Harry glanced down at the suitcase.

“Might help if you folded some of the clothes...”

Neville looked at him blankly.

“Or not,” Harry said. He shoved a few objects further into the suitcase.

“So,” Neville said cheerfully as Harry wrestled with the suitcase, “marvelous game, the other day! Knew you’d win, of course,” he added.

“Thanks,” Harry said. “Where’s Ron?”

“Studying, he told me.” Neville’s brow furrowed. “But exams, O.W.L.s, all that is over.”

“Ah,” Harry said. “Means he’s with Hermione.”

“Oh,” Neville said. “That makes sense. How’s it been with you? You and Ginny? She’s awfully nice.”

“It’s been good.” Harry finally managed to shut the suit case. “There you go, Neville.” He smiled. “Have a good vacation.”

“You too, Harry. Thanks.”

Harry went back to his bed, and began halfheartedly putting things away into his own suitcase. He didn’t want to leave Hogwarts, not at all and life with the Dursleys, that was never fun either. But part of him was glad to be going. He needed to get away. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy being at Hogwarts it was only that... He felt odd here sometimes. His own skin felt strange lately, as if he didn’t belong in it. Perhaps he never had.

It was Malfoy. Had to be. What he had done the other day to Malfoy, that couldn’t have been by his own will. Right? Malfoy must have done something. Someone must have done something. There was nothing inside of Harry, nothing at all, that would ever for a second consider doing something like that. Nothing.

Icy grey eyes. Looking at them, a chill had run through Harry. Yes, an actual chill, like some clichéd line in a poem, and when it had passed he had been consumed in flames. He saw it perfectly in his mind’s eye, saw the flames part for a split second, saw Draco looking back at him, and yes, Harry had leaned forward and he had done it. He had kissed Draco Malfoy.

That was the worst part. It had been no demon, no monster, no spell. Harry had made a decision. He could lie to himself all he wanted. Deep down he felt the truth at its core. Harry had not been overcome with desire. Lust had not taken over.

He had lost himself. And then when the fire parted and he saw Malfoy there, he met him, reached out to touch him as if the ice in his eyes would counteract the fire. During the flood of sensations that followed his lips had been torn from Malfoy’s. At this sudden change, Harry had looked into the other boy’s eyes once more and in one pure exquisite moment, found himself.

That had been the moment that had truly set Harry’s heart pounding. That had been the moment when Harry had felt his need for Malfoy meet a crescendo.

It was not the kiss itself that stood out in Harry’s mind. It was the moments after.

They had fought. It felt wonderful. Never had Harry felt so confident, never had he moved so gracefully, Draco easily matching his grace. And yes, there was pain as Draco’s fist slammed into his chin, but it was all so far away. The pain did not matter, all that mattered was the movements they were both carelessly caught up in, and the voice in Harry’s head saying yes, this is the way it was always supposed to be.

It had ended. Music stops and even the softest notes end abruptly. Their note ended in the shrill pitch of a whistle.

And then the world had righted itself. Harry had touched ground and again there were boundaries and lines and shadows that could not exist in the sky.

“Er, Harry?” It was Neville. He tilted his head at Harry, who was staring at his suitcase, unmoving. He looked very pale.

“Harry?” Neville said again, more loudly. “I, er, forgot to pack a few objects y’see, and I was wondering if you could maybe open the sui-”

“Sorry, gotta go,” Harry said suddenly. He pushed past Neville and made for the door.

“But Harry, the term is almost over! You’re not even packed!”

“See you later,” Harry called back, breaking into a run.

Neville watched him go, puzzled.

~~~

Draco had a good deal of suitcases to pack and, thinking ahead, had packed most all of them the day before. With unusual foresight, he had predicted that he would need a bit of time alone, away from the demands of the Slytherin house. He stood alone now on the Quidditch field. It was not a cloudless day, as he had hoped for. In fact, it was rather rainy and there were plenty of clouds gracing the sky. You didn’t always get the days you hoped for.

He heard footsteps behind him.

“Potter,” he said, not turning around. He knew. He heard the other boy’s footsteps come to a halt behind him. They were silent.

“How did you know I’d be here?” Draco asked finally, voice cold.

“I didn’t,” Harry said. “I was just hoping.”

“For what, exactly?”

“That...” Harry faltered. “That you’d be here. I guess.”

Draco turned. “Lucky guess,” he said quietly. He sounded bitter.

“Were you hoping I’d find you?”

“Yes.”

They were silent.

“I hate you, you know,” Harry said suddenly.

“Yes.”

“That’s it? Yes? Come on, surely you have something more to say?”

And they kissed again. It was long and lasting and full of tears that could not manifest. It was full of hatred. When they pulled away both boys were breathing hard.

Draco laughed suddenly. “Well, that’s it then, isn’t it?” he said. “That’s it for the summer.”

“I hope so.”

Again, Draco laughed. “That’s a funny thing to say. If you feel that way, why’d you come here?”

“I wanted to. I wanted this one last time. Because you know what? This is the last time.” He shook his head. “I can’t do this, Malfoy. I don’t want to do this.”

“This has nothing to do with what we want, Potter,” Draco snapped. “It has to do with what we need.”

“I don’t need you. I will never need you.”

“And you think I need you? My, the Gryffindor house sure does wonders for the ego, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t care if you need me or not,” Harry said. God, why had he come here? Why had the remembrance of a world with no boundaries and constrictions suddenly sent him running? Running to Draco Malfoy for God’s sake. “This is it, okay?" And suddenly his voice was harsh, heated. "Whatever you thought about me, it isn’t true. Whatever you feel for me, get rid of it! And I will do the same for you. I just came here to tell you that.”

“A dramatic good bye,” Draco said softly.

“You call this good bye?” Harry said, with an amused smile. “Didn’t even know we said hello.”

“Listen Potter,” Draco growled. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You didn’t come here to-”

“Yes. I did.”

“You can’t stop something that hasn’t even begun!”

“No, you can’t,” Harry agreed. “But you can prevent it. That’s what I’m doing. I have...too much to lose, Malfoy. Self-respect for one thing.”

Draco gave a little chuckle. Harry plowed ahead before Malfoy got a chance to comment.

“There's my friends, too. They hate you almost as much as I do.”

“Really? Do all your friends express hate like you do? ‘Cause that might be rather fun...”

Harry ignored him. “And there’s Ginny.”

Draco nodded as if he had been waiting for this. “The Weasley girl. A perfectly matched couple, the two of you are. You look as if you’re right for each other. But looks can be deceiving, can’t they Potter?”

Harry said nothing so Draco continued.

“After all, you both appear to be brave, kind people. Sure, there's the ego the size of England, but still...You're both decent. You look out for her and in return you have her full glowing admiration. You both are friends with the same bedraggled group. Really, one would think that you and Ginny were full of similarities that practically guaranteed you an obstacle free walk through lover's lane. But people often think wrong though, don’t they, Potter?”

“Listen, Malfoy, I didn’t come here to be lectured by you on my relationship with Ginny.”

“Shut up. You're interrupting because you don't want me to get to the part you know is true. The fact is, there’s a difference between you and Ginny, a huge one that will prevent the two of you from ever truly coalescing.”

“And what might that be?” Harry said snidely, curious despite himself.

“She’s the real thing. And you’re only pretending.”

Harry knew he should leave then and there. But he stayed, watching Draco with something of interest. “What are you saying, Malfoy?”

“I’m saying,” Draco said with his trademark drawl, “that the Weasley girl truly means well. She wants,” Draco waved his hand airily, “oh, I don’t know, puppies for Christmas and flowers on Valentine’s day. She wants safe love, the kind that comes in sweetly-scented bottles. She wants the kind of love that has boundaries and fences to keep one from accidentally ascending to the stars. Most importantly, she wants happy endings, and she wants these endings to be achieved with as little terror as possible. Whereas you...”

Draco stepped closer to Harry. When Harry didn’t move, he grabbed him by his robe and pulled him closer. He looked at Harry calmly, silver eyes sweeping over him. Harry was suddenly aware of their closeness, the stormy scent of Draco’s skin, the sturdy grip of his fist which had gathered up some of the cloth of Harry’s robe. He didn’t want to be aware of it but Harry’s mind seemed to care very little for what he wanted.

“You embrace the pain,” Draco said. If he felt anything he hid it well. “You embrace the terror. Deny it if you want, Potter, you'll never fool me. Go on, try to cover the truth up, pass it off as your chivalrous duty to fight evil. After all, maybe at first that’s what it really was. You were doing it all, fighting Voldemort, saving the world, because some silly part of your brain thought it was the 'right' thing to do. You thought it was your job.” Draco paused. “But there was a mutation, am I right? A twist. Suddenly you started liking it.”

Harry tried to say something but he couldn’t. His throat had closed up.

“You didn’t realize at first,” Draco continued. “You heroic types are always a bit slow when it comes to these things. You only sensed it, sensed that you might have grown attached to the danger once the danger wasn’t there. Suddenly, you're safe again. Peaceful. And now that you are, you miss being scared. You miss running and hiding. Most of all you miss that moment when you’re found. You miss the moment of confrontation, that single moment when you feel most alive. The fear and the danger and the agony collide into one glistening moment of truth.

"And suddenly you’re not putting on an act for anyone. You know, in that single moment, exactly who you are and you know that you are something great. Powerful. You also know that when the moment passes you’ll be normal again. Unremarkable. Average. And it’s that feeling of truth in who you really are that you miss the most.” Draco smiled at Harry’s frown. “Don’t worry, Potter, I feel the same way.”

“I don’t feel that way!” Harry said, finding his voice. “I never have. All I’ve wanted my whole life was to be normal! Safe.”

“Oh yeah? You lived with muggles, didn’t you? Can you honestly say you didn’t want power? Can you honestly say you weren’t bored?”

“I’m a wizard, Malfoy. That’s who I was, that’s who I am, that’s who I’ll always be. To me, that is normality. Are wizards not powerful? Being normal doesn’t mean you’re without power, it doesn’t mean you’re bored. It means that you can continue life uninterrupted, without any sense of deadly danger about you. Your life no longer revolves around fear, simply because you don’t enjoy being terrified, you don’t enjoy the danger.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it, Potter.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why are you here?”

Harry was silent. Draco nodded.

“It’s called a last resort, Potter,” Draco said, and pressed cool lips to Harry’s for one long moment. “And I’m it.”

He shoved Harry from him and walked away, leaving the Gryffindor boy staring after him.

~~~

It had been, Draco thought as he lay in bed that night, a most satisfying good bye.

Really, he did not think it could have gone better. Harry’s reactions, his words, all of it had passed exactly as Draco had wished. He was in control again and Potter knew it. That’s how Draco liked it. During the Quidditch game, Potter thought he was calling the shots. Right. Maybe, for one brief moment, he was. It was the worst thing that could have happened, in Draco's mind. He'd never let it happen again.

He shivered inwardly at the memory. Never had he felt so invincible as he did during the start of that game. The adrenaline had been pumping through his veins, he was flushed from his eerily graceful physical fight with Potter. And then, for one moment, he was winning. Words of truth were spilling easily from his lips. He was confidant, poised.

And Potter had been freaked. He was staring at Draco with dread, with fear. It was the fear Draco had wanted Harry to feel, the fear you get from knowing that your enemy knows you better than you know yourself. It was going splendidly.

And then Draco had shattered it all with one simple sentence.

"I'm the only one who can give you that sense of danger, aren't I?"

He had meant it as a threat, a challenge. He had thought that those words that would shake Potter, make him afraid. He thought those words would be the final blow. Scared, Potter would lose control. Boom. Draco'd win the game.

Instead, Harry had started staring at him with something else. Draco could see something like realization dawning in the other boy’s green eyes. Harry was frighteningly beautiful in that moment. Draco’s breath had halted. It was as if they had without warning switched places. Now it was Potter who was standing there confidently, Potter who was slowly and silently analyzing Draco with his eyes.

Then Harry Potter kissed him and with the kiss Draco’s confidence drained away. Had he felt confident before? It seemed a distant memory as this kiss seemed to strip his soul of its layers, leaving him utterly, utterly vulnerable to all of Potter's wishes. For a second Draco was wracked with fear. Funny how easily fear can turn to desire. Funny how passions swerve and never pay attention the road set out for them or the arrows directing them in their way to go.

Damn hilarious. He gave himself up to it, responded to their kiss with fervor.

And then like a little boy overcome with emotion, Draco had stumbled over his own feet and lost his balance.

He saw it again and again in his mind. The moment between him and Harry was overwhelming, so overwhelming that he had lost his center. He had almost fallen off his broom.

That had never ever happened before.

It was that which upset Draco most of all. In losing his center, Draco had lost his the aloofness he held above others. His superiority faltered as he faltered.

Well, he wasn’t going to lose control of this damn thing. If he and Harry were going to crash, Draco wanted to be the one doing the driving.

It was ghostly in Malfoy Manor. It always was. Draco was glad to be home again. He enjoyed the silent perfection. He enjoyed being with his family, away from those slobbering bunch of morons who awkwardly graced the floors of Hogwarts. Unlike his peers, his mother and father were always respectable. They were always aloof. They never lost their center, like he had. Complete control of their emotions, steel guards on all of their reactions.

Yes. This was his world, here with people like him. Nothing in his world should ever or would ever consist of what lay in that damned Potter’s eyes. After all, what he had saw there? It was just a second of unguarded lust and everyone suffered from those now and then. This was just one that seemed to be nagging at him, that was all. He had upset Potter, rattled him a little. And now it was done and he was home. All games he might have played with Potter’s head would cease until school resumed. And, as much fun as playing games with Potter’s head was, Draco was glad for this break.

Inwardly he wondered if it was really Potter who was playing the games with him.

He crushed that thought before it had time to form.

Gazing at the moon drifting dreamily through his window, Draco began to feel more relaxed, less jittery. Just as he was falling asleep, he heard a loud rap on his window.

He sighed and got out of bed. A misdirected owl that was meant for his parents, no doubt. Striding angrily to the window he pulled back the drapes.

He paused, taken aback. A most beautiful owl was peering in at him quizzically. Truly, it was a magnificent creature. It’s white feathers shone with a holy gleam in the moonlight.

He opened up the window.

“They’re downstairs,” Draco informed the owl a bit snappishly, overcoming his initial awe. He rarely got letters and surely such a regal owl was meant for his father.

Impatient, the owl undid the knot tying the letter to it’s leg, picked the letter up in it’s mouth, and dropped the letter at Draco’s feet. It then glided off into the night. Draco watched as the owl disappeared.

“Daft thing,” he muttered. He glanced down at the white paper envelope at his feet. His eyes widened. There was his name, scrawled lopsidedly across the page.

He opened up the envelope.

You will never be a resort for me of any kind. I do not need you. I will never turn to you. Don’t reply to this letter or try to contact me in any way. Stay away from me and the people I love. Do not for a second think that you have me figured out.

“Potter,” Draco muttered, although the letter was unsigned. He turned it over, half expecting to find bloody stick figures labeled ‘Malfoy’ on the back, being killed or tortured in numerous stick figure-like ways. However it was blank.

“Always have to have the last word, don’t we, Potter?” Draco murmured to himself.

He folded the letter and tucked it neatly into a drawer in his desk.

He wouldn’t reply. Yet.

~~~

Summer at the Dursleys was hell. Summer at the Weasleys was heaven. It all, Harry thought as he watched night slowly swallow up the sun, balanced out in the end.

It had been months since school had ended and in two week he would be back at Hogwarts. Don’t worry about Hogwarts. Live for the now. You’re at The Burrow and you’re on the Weasleys' porch and everything is peaceful and right.

But apprehension seized him anyway as the thought of Hogwarts and all that lay within it, one boy in particular, ran through his head again.

The apprehension mostly left him as he felt Ginny slip her arms around his neck from behind.

“Guess who?” she sung teasingly into his ear.

“Well,” Harry said, “unless Ron got ferociously kicked in the groin and has suddenly gained a pretty high-pitched voice devoid of any testosterone... I’m gonna have to go with...Percy.”

“Such a comedian.”

“A compliment? Well. Has to be Ginny then, doesn’t it?”

“Very good,” she told him. He turned.

“What’s my reward?” he asked.

They kissed.

This month had been a nice one, Harry thought. It was full of simple pleasures. Family, for truly the Weasleys acted as such for him, and good food, Quidditch games, and Ginny, of course. Like the sunset he was now watching, the month had been tinted with a golden glow.

“Almost time for dinner,” Ginny noted as they pulled away.

“Yeah.” Harry watched intently as the orange rosiness in the sky slowly faded to a royal blue which melted easily to black. The darkness of the night sky swallowed his vision, unlike the pale light from before which had only added weak shadows to those around him.

“Er, Harry?” Ginny said. “I asked if you wanted to go inside...?”

“One sec, Ginny.” Harry watched as the last patch of sunlight slipped away, giving into the night, which covered Its blazing path with spots of darkness, like a dark sprinkling of snow.

“Now can we go inside?” Ginny asked.

Her impatient voice threw him from the intensity of the sky, dropping Harry with a thud onto the petty grounds of earth.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Sorry, I just wanted to see-”

The hoot of an owl interrupted him. It landed gracefully at Harry’s side and looked pointedly to the letter attached to it’s leg. It was labeled “To the Boy Who Lived”.

Slipping the envelope off the owl, Harry tore the parcel open. A quill fell into his lap, along with a letter.

Did you really think you could intimidate me, Potter? Sometimes, for a second, I think maybe you really do have a sense of humor. Or is that only wishful thinking?

If you think you can provoke me into silence, think again. And perhaps think again after that, because you Gryffindors are not known for having much in the way of brains.

See you soon.

Malfoy. Naturally. Harry had been surprised he had not replied sooner. Harry had written the original letter in a gesture of spite, however he had not really expected it to provoke Malfoy into silence. Rather, he had thought it would goad the other boy into talking.

“Who’s the letter from?” Ginny queried, watching the varying emotions passing through Harry’s eyes.

“Uh. No one.”

Ginny arched an eyebrow.

“I mean, I don’t know. It’s not signed.”

“That’s strange,” Ginny said. She leaned over to get a better view of the letter. “Can I see?”

“Er, no,” Harry said suddenly. “It doesn’t say anything important.”

“Well, let me judge for myself.”

“Gin, I don’t think-”

“Why not? Do you have a secret Swedish lover?”

“No!” Harry cried defensively.

“I was just kidding, Harry... Let me see.” She reached toward the letter. “Maybe I’ll recognize the handwriti-”

“NO.” Harry’s voice was loud and commanding. He pulled the letter away. This was highly unnecessary however, as Ginny had pulled away from him swiftly. He saw the sudden hurt in her eyes. Harry reached out to touch her shoulder but she shirked away from his hand.

In a flash his voice turned gentle.

“Oh God, Gin, I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to yell-”

“I’m going inside,” Ginny said.

“Ginny, please, I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“I’m not. I’m just going inside.” She looked at him. “Are you coming?”

Harry didn’t move.

“No,” Ginny said bitterly, “of course you’re not.” She opened the door. “See you at dinner then.” She walked into the Burrow and closed the door behind her. She did not slam it. Ginny was not the type who slammed doors. But Harry could sense her anger all the same.

When he was sure she was gone he picked up the quill that had fallen in his lap. Malfoy had provided it for him. He probably knew that Harry would only reply to his letter in the first wave of rage he’d feel after reading it. Once that initial anger subsided, Harry would set to ignoring him.

Malfoy was right to take advantage of those few precious moments of Harry's unrestrained anger. Taking up the quill, Harry scribbled a reply on the back of Malfoy’s letter. He crossed out the previous name addressing the letter to him and replaced it with Draco’s.

The owl that had delivered it waited patiently at his side. Harry reattached the note to the owl, who promptly flew off.

Harry watched it disappear. Then he walked into the Burrow to apologize to Ginny.

“I’m not mad,” she insisted after he had done so. “Only...lately you’ve seemed so...I don’t know, distracted. You’re sure nothing is wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“And secretive as well. Who was that letter from?”

“Neville, asking about the assignments we have over the summer. Trust Neville to forget to sign his own name.”

Ginny looked away but said nothing. She didn't believe him. A fleeting guilt ran through Harry.

No use in telling her the truth, was there though? It would hurt her by getting her angry at Malfoy for trying to intimidate her boyfriend. Harry wanted to protect Ginny from hurt, not be the cause of it. Besides, he was pissed enough at Malfoy for the both of them.

~~~

Draco stared intently out his window that night. Quarter to ten. He had sent the owl at half past five. Seeing the ghostly shape of his owl, Amers, Draco’s head shot up.

The bird swooped in through an open window. Draco rubbed her neck affectionately in thanks before greedily opening the letter.

If I thought I could intimidate you into shutting up, Malfoy, I would have done so long ago. Do you think you’ve caught me off guard, sending a letter all of a sudden?

You haven’t.

I remember you told me not to underestimate the element of surprise.

I won’t.

I’m sure hoping you’re having a lovely summer, alone in your mansion.

It wasn't signed, of course. Draco smiled and picked up the quill that Harry had put back into the envelope. He filled it with more ink and was about to scrawl a reply when Amers, hearing the sound of quill scratching against parchment, set him with a steady glare.

“Ah, sorry m’girl,” Draco said. “You must be tired... Go and hunt. Tomorrow morning you can send this..”

With a hoot of approval, Amers soared out of Draco’s window.

~~~

They continued like that for the rest of the summer, sending letters to and fro. They were brief notes, never longer than three or four paragraphs, if that. The content themselves consisted of mostly jeers, challenges, smug comments. However, between the lines of every letter was packed such an intensity that a roar would come to each boy’s ears whenever they spotted the silhouette of Amers, or, when Harry found Amers too tired to make the trip back, Hedwig. They came to know the sight of the other’s owl perfectly. Harry grew obsessed with scanning the sky during the day or early evening, whereas Draco would often fall asleep by his window sill, waiting.

Never once did they ever sign their names.

Never once did they speak of what had happened between them. Nor did they speak of these short but powerful notes to anyone but each other. The exchange of words between them became rapid.

And gradually the content of the letters grew more and more serious.

Miss me?

Of course not, Potter. Bored out there? Need me?

I never need you.

You always have.

Never.

Always.

Never. All you do is give me a rush of hatred.

Maybe that rush of hatred is the only thing that makes you feel alive.

Maybe I’ll only feel alive with you dead. Do I give you that rush?

Always.

Do you like it?

Never.

Liar. You know you do.

I hate it. I hate you, Potter.

After this underlined proclamation, Draco expected a speedy reply. He hoped for it, craved for it. As the usual amount of time passed by, Draco became more and more panicked. Soon, days had passed. Circles appeared under his eyes. Draco couldn’t explain why he was upset by such a wait. It felt vaguely as if he had offered a challenge and Potter had refused. Only no, that couldn’t be right. Potter would never refuse a challenge, not from Draco.

He had offered it all. The rush he felt, the need he had. He had offered Potter his hate. Laughter was something he expected, or anger or revenge. Not...silence. Silence, the worst reply of all. As if he, Draco Malfoy, wasn’t good enough?!

That was what really cut. It wasn't that something had gone on between them. It wasn't that Draco felt like a lover scorned. He didn’t. It was simply that in the last two weeks he had lived for those letters, lived for the flickering thrill they gave him. Heated correspondence with his worst enemy. What could be better?

And now Harry had said nothing. It was a blatant injury to his pride that cut Draco like a raw and sudden stab to the stomach.

Silence, ringing louder than all the laughing mockery in the world. Draco covered his ears with his hands. The rush of air around him ceased. He knew he should get some sleep, his sixth year at Hogwarts was starting tomorrow...But there was still the faint glimmering chance that a letter would appear before then.

Pathetic, a voice in his head told him. You, desperately waiting for a letter from Harry Potter. Is this the shell you’ve become?

I need to hear from him. I’m bored, is all. It’s fun to get a rise out of Potter.

You like the way anger looks in his eyes. Like emerald flames.

No. It’s not that. I’m bored. Bored, and this is an idle pastime to waste away the days.

You know his handwriting perfectly now. You know the way he dots his i’s. You know the angle at which his t’s are slanted, that perfect downward slant. You keep the letters he sends you in a drawer, like a lovesick puppy.

I hate him. I told him so myself.

And see how now, with the sight of his owl casting shadows upon the moonlight, you leap from where you sit, ever faithful, in front of your window? See how your pulse quickens, how suddenly the world’s silence does not matter? See how you now tear his letter with such animal ferocity that you cut yourself upon the edge?

See how you bleed?

Draco absentmindedly wrapped a tissue around the slim paper cut on his finger as he read the letter.

His eyes widened.

I hate you too, Malfoy.

Meet me in the luggage compartment tomorrow, on the Hogwarts Express.