Hidden

Chapter Ten

Invisibility

Day and night, evil and good, knowledge and ignorance, shadow and moonlight. For Draco, there were two sides; this game of life, to him, was a two player game, like Chess. Every day he never knew whether he would spend that day being Pawn, Knight, maybe King, or Queen. But almost every day, he awoke feeling King, but when compared to Harry Potter, felt like the Pawn.

It was so easy to hide. With the littlest movement, word, look, he hid himself. But he hated being invisible. Hated being alone, hated the love that was showered so readily by so many upon Harry. And Harry took it all in, drank it like it was plain water. If Draco ever got that much attention, that much love, that much of not being alone, he would treat it like heavenly nectar, become intoxicated by it, like champagne, wine, whiskey, anything but normal drink.

Day in, day out, gazing solemnly at the fire in the evening, drinking wine, taunting Potter and his friends--with no purpose. It wasn't even fun any more. It all came down to one fact, and only one: Draco was lonely. He cursed the day he was born, the day the cloud of servitude of Voldemort had begun to hover over his head. He already felt like he had the Dark Mark on his arm, for his inevitable destiny of darkness was tattooed on his heart, forever there like a stamp on an envelope, a stamp on a document, saying CONFIDENTIAL.

He knew it was all wrong. Everything was wrong, every thought he'd been trained to think, attitude he'd been trained to have, reactions he'd been trained to have, feelings he'd been trained to suppress--they all went against him. He was alone on the battlefield, standing in the middle of the Chess teams. Just like the old man in the dungeon had said--he wanted that Harry Potter, to at least once in his life, experience loneliness, pain of the soul, the feeling of, for once, not being loved.

And the opportunity to give this pain to the Gryffindor had come along, when Harry had confessed his love to Draco. And Draco had taken this advantage, and told Harry outright the truth, told Harry he had no chances. It was true; Draco had learned from punishment that lying was not good. So he hadn't even lied to Harry. But not lying, and telling Harry the truth that would hurt the other boy's heart had not made Draco feel good, happy as he had expected. Turmoil had boiled inside him.

Trying to be reminded of good things, enjoyable things, he'd begun to work on Potions homework; it was always easy. But, in his swirl of guilty, half-satisfied, unsure thoughts, he'd messed up. It was unlike him, but he hadn't been able to concentrate. The shock that, after all these years, Harry Potter loved him!--it had seemed so ludicrous, so impossible, that it had totally overwhelmed him.

Draco had made the wrong potion.

The assignment had been to create a potion never made before. Easy enough, he knew the others, especially the Gryffindors, would try to make complicated, fancy ones to get points. He, however, had the advantage, and could get an A by making even a simple one. But instead of the intended burning potion, he'd made...A love potion.

It was a potion unlike any other, however. Not exactly a love potion, but pretty damn close. It was the Aestuo Pariter potion; he'd looked it up upon realizing the potion he'd accidentally made. This potion had the effects that, the drinker of the potion would be overwhelmed with an uncontrollable sexual desire for the first person they laid eyes on--of the same gender. Realizing what he'd done, Draco had escaped to the boy's locker room to change out of his Quidditch clothes (another thing unlike him to do, leaving them on so long after the game). He also knew that it was his only possible place of escape from seeing anybody, and had hoped the potion would wear off. It hadn't.

As soon as his gaze had met with Harry's, Draco had begun to feel groggy, and every sense, hearing, touch, smell, taste, sight--had heightened immensely, and then he didn't know what happened until he woke up lying on the floor of the locker room. With Harry sitting there, disheveled, surprised, a strange, unrecognizable look in his eyes. Draco had felt fear, unlike anything he'd ever felt before; it had been unfamiliar, awkward, he hadn't even known what had just happened. He knew it was bad though, knew that Harry had liked it. This, of course, made it even worse.

There was one thing he remembered, if nothing else, about the incident, however.

Harry's scent. Draco had grown up in a place with dulled scents. The most strong-smelling place had been the dungeons, and although when young the stench had frightened him, it was a place of solitude from his parents and his life, and he'd learned to live with the smell. Also, simply being able to smell something had made him able to spend time happily in the Malfoy dungeons. Hogwarts had been amazing, too. Scents, although not bad or strong as the dungeons, were there. He'd enjoyed it, and school. Until his enmity with Harry really rose, of course. One thing Draco had never noticed about Harry, through their six years in Hogwarts, was the boy's scent.

But now, upon having smelt it, it was all he could remember from the locker room incident, all he could think about. It drove him wild, insane with wanting to bottle up the smell, keep it forever inside him; he wanted to own it. The smell had been sweet, and thick, like taffy, yet also strong, and stubborn--Gryffindors!--like cinnamon. So sweet, yet so powerful.

Draco idly scratched at his neck, wondering when daylight would come and he could breathe again. Staying in his bed at nights, with swirls of confusing, conflicting thoughts, he was most always unable to sleep. And this libido potion made it even worse. At least it was only limited to one person; too bad for him that the person was Harry Potter. Every time he thought of the chaotic-haired Gryffindor, his breath came fast, body alert, tight fitting pants torture, repressing the hardness.

So almost every night, when he could breathe and attempt sleep no longer, he came to this place, where shadow and moonlight surrounded him, and where the wind blowing around him made it easier to breathe. But he couldn't stop thinking. Never. He thought of his anger at Dumbledore, his father, and his acceptance of the life he had endured for sixteen years. Thoughts of his mother gave him sadness; he couldn't stand this feeling, so he always dismissed the sorrow, retrieving his uncaring coldness. And every time he thought of Harry, the turmoil rose up again inside him. So he tried to think of nothing at all, with no success.

-----*-----

Draco scuffed his boot against the stone of the windowsill. He had gone through another what he called "blank session," which was attempting to blank out all thoughts from his mind. But it never worked. Never.

He sighed, and gazed up at the moon. Moonlight soothed him. Silver, it reminded him of being in-between, like he was. It wasn't light, bright, and happy like the sun, but it wasn't dark, shadowy, and concealing like the night.

He sat on the windowsill, the curve of the window--open to the night air, no glass--rising high many feet above him. The room to his left was half covered in shadow, half light with moon rays. However, the room was utterly empty, filled with dust, not even a single mouse twittering. The silence surrounded Draco, coating him like paint, soothing him, yet unable to dull the screaming of thoughts within his head. To his right, was a fatal fall to the ground. He'd considered jumping off once or twice, ending the anguish, the pain, the questions. But he hadn't.

And sometimes wished he had.

But the time had passed, and it never seemed right, anymore. Too many things had happened, and he wanted to know answers before he left the world. Of course, if he wanted to, he could leave the world, and go to the OtherWorld. But the Headmaster had told him that many Summoners, older than him, had died trying to get to the OtherWorld. Draco had decided against taking that risk, leaving reckless adventures to Harry Potter. Plus, he didn't know how.

Silver hair glowing in the moonlight, pale face half cast in shadow, half in moonlight, he closed his eyes, listening to the world around him, to his breathing, trying to cast away the thoughts that clothed his mind like heavy armor.

His eyes snapped open, as he heard the click of the door being opened.

Someone had managed to get through his defense, his talent of hiding himself. Someone had intruded on his invisibility.