Falling

He was falling. Maybe drifting. Softly, oh so softly. His consciousness was the sound of the shrieking air, mixed within the sharp, cruel wind that wrapped him. His thoughts were sparkling strips of color that vanished when faced with the physical, complex structure of the air molecules. So he was drifting, becoming the colored tattoo of his self-image against the sky; within the sky. There was no more pain, because there was no longer the reality of his body to contain it. He became transparent to his pain; transparent to himself. His body would hit the ground within a couple of seconds, but his mind would be locked forever in this everlasting moment. And that would be all he could remember. Flying.

His broom was floating in the air above him, going further and further upwards as the seconds stretched. Above the broom there was the sun. A Blinding, hypnotizing orb of light. Light splintering from his corneas. Light glowing from a silver blond hair. Clouds swirling, shaping and re-shaping, taking the form of magical creatures and animals made of sugar, shaping themselves in the form of his childhood memories. Harry could almost taste them.

And then he was swept away, and back to consciousness.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Potter?" shouted the blond boy who carried him to the ground.

They were racing after the Snitch. Then he let his arms off the broom-handle and the next moment he was flying in the air. Really flying. Harry knew that would be the end, and was grateful. It was the same sensation as waking on Christmas morning to a mountain of presents. Moments later, he was able to laugh at the image. Greeting death was stupid, it was also banal, and he became too bloody sarcastic to enjoy the melodrama of it. Yet for a moment he was indeed happy, immersed in a blissful sense of relief. At last.

Malfoy of course, was bound to interfere. He felt a shred of amusement at the fact he could possibly feel angry- could possibly feel anything, and ignored the urge to laugh. The sunrays that hit his glasses made his vision blurry. Harry was aware of strong arms holding him but was unable to discern the pointed face in the rush of wind and movement. Then he was on the ground, on his feet, watching a cursing Malfoy walk away. The pitch was crowded with worried people. Hermione was clinging to him. He heard Ron talking but didn't bother to listen. Professor McGonagall, stern and expressionless, sent him to the infirmary. "Now, Potter". Harry remembered throwing up. The taste of a chocolate frog. Afterwards, he fell asleep.

***

Draco stepped away from the Quidditch pitch. He was that close. The snitch was just within the reach of his hand. And that was the moment idiot Potter forgot he was supposed to actually hold his broom, and fell. 'I should have let him fall', Draco decided angrily, kicking a lump of dirt. 'What the hell was he trying to do anyway?'

Kill himself, probably.

Oh, that wasn't like Potter. Draco refused to believe it. His sworn enemy would not do something as foolish and hackneyed as attempting suicide. It would be disrespectful toward both of them. Yet how else could anyone explain this sudden loss of control? Draco hated to admit it, but Potter was a fine flyer. Better then Draco himself. Potter could not just happen to lose control of his broom.

This was unacceptable. Draco sank to the grass, limbs sprawled, and gazed blankly at the sky. The sun was scorching his delicate skin. It was somewhat of a challenge; staring back at the high-noon sun, then turning away his gaze before being blinded. Confrontation was always easier, he mused. It was also the only way Draco knew, as Lucius Malfoy would never have let his son grow up a coward. He liked scaring off people. It kept them from bothering him. But damn Potter was never scared off. Instead, he taunted Draco in return. Until now. 'He didn't even answer me when I cursed him.'

It suddenly occurred to Draco that Potter had looked exceptionally tired and distracted for quite some time. Since the beginning of the year, in fact. Potter seemed to be... slowly fading. This had angered Draco immensely, and so his little schemes aimed to harm Potter became more and more venomous. 'And now the little prat is intentionally falling off his broom. How enormously ungrateful of him. All this time wasted being nasty, for nothing!'

Draco blinked. The sun had burned his eyes for too long. He had to shut them. Pity petty Potter. Someone really ought to beat him out of this morbid phase. It occurred to Draco that he was being cruel. It both pleased and disturbed him. His perfect sense of drama took great pleasure in him being such a villain. Yet he actually seemed to... pity Potter? Feel sorry for him? The Boy Who Lived appears to be The Boy Who Had a Death Wish? What a load of crap. Good, sentimental crap though. And what would fit the scene better than his arch nemesis laughing at his expense?

'You are such a cruel, twisted little monster, Malfoy.' Draco gave himself a mental pat on the shoulder. 'It would also help if you didn't get caught in your own web of devious mischief.' He really had to stop showing off when there was no one else around. He was sometimes afraid of his own exhibitionism; of believing the play he was acting.

Potter's falling had scared the shit out of him. 'You were pissing in your pants, Malfoy,' he forced himself to admit. Draco closed his eyes, trying to get a hold on the fear that had almost paralyzed him. It was floating under the surface. A small fist of scattered emotion beneath his rib cage that would be tearing him apart the moment he touched it. Surprise, horror, fear, anger. 'Damn you Malfoy,' he swore without a voice, 'feel it.' It hurt. He needed to hurt in order to collect himself. And then he was on his feet, walking toward the castle.

Madam Pomfrey wouldn't let him in. The old bitch. She was touched by young Mr. Malfoy's concern, but Mr. Potter needed his sleep more then he needed company.

Very well, Draco decided. He'd come back later. And if she still refused, he would find a way around her. After all, he was a Slytherin.

* * *

The moon was embroidering strange patterns upon the walls. A dim, silvery tapestry telling the story of sad night creatures. He followed the scribbled moonlight script with his eyes, his gaze finally falling on a slim character, seated on a chair not far away from the bed he was lying in.

"Malfoy??" Of all people, the blonde boy was the last he expected or wanted to see.

In a second, Malfoy was over him, pinning Harry to the mattress, blocking Harry's mouth with his hand. "Shut up, you stupid git. Do you know what it took for me to sneak in here?"

Harry glared at Malfoy, unable to speak.

"If I let go of you, will you promise to be quiet?"

He sneered. Draco Malfoy was leaning over him, silver-blond locks shading his pale face. The weight of his body pressed Harry down, making it impossible for him to move. Malfoy was heavier then he looked, Harry thought grimly.

"I can sit here all night, Potter," he drawled, "So you had better do as I tell you. I'm letting go of you now and will punch you if you attempt anything foolish." All of a sudden, he removed his hand, giving Harry a scornful look.

"Get-off-me," Harry said in a quiet, dangerous tone.

Malfoy retorted with a devious grin. "I actually think I'm quite comfortable over here," he said.

Harry squirmed, trying to shove him off. Draco laughed, then rose up and seated himself comfortably on the side of the bed.

"What do you want, Malfoy?"

"To talk," was Draco's cold answer.

Harry blinked suspiciously. "Why do I find it difficult to believe you?"

"Cause you're a prick, Potter. That's why."

"Why then, should I talk to you?"

Malfoy pretended to be surprised. "Well, saving someone's life does give one certain privileges."

"Oh, and now you probably expect me to thank you?"

"To have you crawling on the floor kissing my shoes gratefully would be just adorable... but I think we can save it for some other time. What I want, Potter, is an explanation."

"Explanation for what, exactly?"

Malfoy chuckled. "Let's see... maybe for intentionally falling off your broom?"

"I didn't intentionally fall of my broom!" Harry protested irritably.

"Quiet, you fool!" Draco hushed him. "And don't lie to me. I know you're flying style well enough to tell that you did it on purpose."

"Really?" Harry spat. "Do me a favor and sod off, Malfoy."

Draco was watching him arrogantly, his eyes of mystified-silver blank and emotionless. As it looked, he had no intention of disposing Harry of his annoying presence. Harry sighed.

He was dreaming. Shattered, broken-glass sharp dreams that stabbed his soul and made him ache with pain. Sirius - falling through the veil. His mother screaming. His world was falling apart just to be reorganized in a scornful, half-crazy smile. His loneliness and anger were staring Harry in the face, as if inviting him to share a bizarre ritual of self-injury.

He raised himself to seating position, looking at Draco. The blond boy answered him with a hollow gaze. The moonlight painted his profile against the darkness. Sharp cheekbones. Straight, perfect nose. Rosy lips slightly pouted, like a sting of red on the ivory colored skin.

"What do you want, Malfoy? Honestly," Harry asked, after long minutes of silence.

Malfoy shrugged. "I'm not sure of it myself. If I knew, I probably won't be here talking to the famous Potter. Did you attempt suicide?"

"No!"

"What happened then?"

"I fell!"

"Oh, don't be pathetic, Potter. You can do better than that."

"I don't know," Harry said finally.

"Don't know what?" sneered Draco.

"What happened."

"Did you want to die?"

Harry took a sharp breath. Tears were stinging his eyes. "Yes, I did. Are you happy now, you fucking bastard?"

Malfoy leaned closer. His static gaze roamed over Harry's face. Stretching out his arm, he touched the wetness on Harry's cheek. "Is that a tear Potter? How endearing."

"Shut up!"

Malfoy only arched a brow. Slowly, he lifted his fingers to his lips, tasting the salty liquid staining them. He frowned. "Why did you want to die?"

"It's none of your business." Harry's voice was failing him.

Draco gave him the: sure-it-is-I-saved-your-life-look.

Harry leaned against the wall. He didn't know if he had any answers, not to Malfoy, nor himself. "I'm tired," he said at last.

"Tired?"

"Tired, Malfoy. Tired of being alone. Tired of risking people I love. Tired of losing them. Tired of being the fucking Boy Who Lived." Harry laughed bitterly. "But what would you know about that?"

Draco examined him curiously. He almost looked like he was enjoying himself. "Nothing, I guess."

"Go away Malfoy, I want to be alone."

"I don't feel like it."

"Go away, I said. I'm not playing this twisted game of yours anymore." Harry's voice was cracking. "You've got your answers, now get the fuck away from here and leave me alone!"

Draco simply shrugged. "Can't." He lied down the bed, outstretching his arm to hold Harry and draw him closer. Then Harry's head was pillowed against his chest, his tears soaking the fine wool of Draco's robe. "There you go Potter, whine and moan all you like. I'm holding you now. It's all gonna be okay."

"I hate you Malfoy." Harry sobbed through clenched teeth.

"Oh, that's all right. I hate you too. You can rest in peace if that's what bothering you."

Harry clenched his fist, and hit Malfoy as hard as he could. Draco groaned, muttering curses, and planted his fist in Harry's face. They were wrestling in silence for long minutes, two boys stretched on a narrow bed, body to body.

Moon rays splintered broken images of skin, eyes and fingers off the cancerous darkness. Then, Harry felt Draco's lips touching his, and all of a sudden they were kissing. Frantically. Madly. Teeth biting into soft flesh, tongues clashing in anger.

Harry tasted the salt of his own tears on Draco's lips, and cried.

1