Disclaimers: I don't own Harry Potter, or anything vaguely even related to the series. This is just a little bit of fanwork, really, I'm not makin' a profit here, people.

Note: This is the prelude to a much larger, intertwined story. Nothing will be as it seems.

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He's lying on the bed, reclined, inches from me. Some time or another that I can't pinpoint; his skin lost its ghostly paleness and began to take on a burnished copper. His body, too, changed, became as rippling and taut as if carved in stone. The arms that rest behind his head are sleek and sculpted as well. The one thing that has not changed is the look in his eyes, the pale awareness of everything, and yet the harsh ability to set it aside and focus inwardly. He's like a Grecian sculpture; a Roman painting of male perfection.

But you'd expect that.

You'd expect that the girls would whisper in the hallways. Watch him covertly in groups- never alone.

And it's not just Slytherin.

It's really something like curiosity and scorn mixed in fair amounts. Their loyalty to the Boy Who Lived would have them mock and ostracize him. But the part inside that they don't fully understand, the part that speaks to them in their dreams, would have them watch him, whisper about him, and yes, want him.

You might say that I've got a head start.

His control of himself is as opposite of my own disposition as you could reach. It stems from his lack of ability to control the world around him. His father took this ability from him the moment he entered this world.

Draco has always been somebody's bitch.

You can see that now, in the way he reclines, heavy-lidded eyes gazing outward while he gazes inward. He seems relaxed, but his muscles are on alert. At the slightest movement that startles him, he'll lash out involuntarily. It's a reflex, by now.

In my own little way I'd like to think I'm helping.

I reach out, slowly; let my hand waver in his vision, before letting it rest on his stomach. The muscles in his abdomen flinch, but he makes no other move. His eyes don't focus. I'm not important enough to draw his mind back from wherever he's let it wander. But that's all right.

To me, in a way, he's the same.

Wisps of pale hair frame his face. He's known for keeping it back; slick, sleek. But lately, he's become absent-minded enough to let it be. He's let a lot of things be in the past few months.

Not that I have any room to talk.

I trace patterns over his bare stomach with my fingernails, watching the white lines that appear and disappear as I move. His eyebrows twitch, but he will not be lulled back to me.

Back to truth.

He'd rather stay, I know, in his fantasy world, or his miserable thoughts. Whichever. They both usually run together.

I know.

In threat of becoming lost in my own thoughts, he relents. His own hand catches mine, and stills it. I let my palm rest on his warm skin, brush soft ash-blonde curls. I can feel his heartbeat through my hand, slow at first, gaining rhythm.

He eases up off of the bed, sighing as though he's been asleep all this time, and I've just awoken him. He squeezes my hand as he rises, letting go to stand. I lay back, giving him space to ease himself back into control. He paces momentarily, using freshly-callused palms to distractedly push the blondish locks from out of his face. Impenetrable gray eyes focus.

"How long have you been here?"

I stretch out on the bed, yawning. It's safe to be casual, now.

"Classes finished twenty minutes ago."

He flashes me an indistinguishable look. "Not watching me sleep, I hope."

"Hardly," I say, twisting a lock of my already careless dark-brown hair.

"Uh huh." He dresses slowly, gathering his clothes around his body even as he gathers that thick, impenetrable coldness that has made him so successful in his self-mutilation process. The Prefect room he rarely sleeps in rings with silence. It doesn't matter, though. It's a comfortable silence.

When he's done, he turns to me. Sharp eyes rake up my body, leaving me feeling uncomfortable and exposed.

"Stop that," I scold, giving him my worst look. "It's bad enough, you know, with Ron."

"What?" He hisses, pretending further that there's any strength left in him to be mean-spirited or cruel. "You're comparing me to that tactless Weasley?" In one fluid motion, he's cut the distance between us, tearing up reason or thought by the roots and scattering them around us like falling rain. He's on top of me, pressing me into the bed until I can barely breathe and eyes of the coldest metal are suddenly snapping and hot.

I gasp, but struggling is really useless. All of that muscle he's put on has replaced the delicate curves of his body. He could hold me down and keep it that way, if that was the sort of person he was.

In a flash, he's done making his point, and eases back onto his elbows, leveling our faces. Eyes that hold so many shades of gray have softened considerably, letting the only person who's ever seen into him once again read his soul.

I cradle his face in my hands, letting my fingernails trace the only delicate part of him. His features are classic Roman, from the petal-like lips to the straight nose. In his face he's still beautiful, almost feminine sometimes. It's a strong contrast between the body he's trained so hard to become a masculine machine.

"Draco," I state, in a tone of matter-of-fact sadness.

He eyes my lips coolly as I speak. And in an instant of amusement, a long- dead familiar look graces his calm features.

He smirks.

"Mudblood," Is all he replies.