title: Blown by the Winds of Chance

author: cappie-chan

e-mail: furinkoto_neko@yahoo.com

pairings: Harry/Draco

Summary: During the summer leading to the fifth year at Hogwarts, Harry and Draco's world are smashed. Taking place over the last three years, Draco and Harry find their hatred towards each other blown out of proportion by desperate attempts to glue their once simple lives together.  When this fails, the two are left with only each other and a fading hatred between them

rating: pg13

disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, the characters, books, artwork, ect.

category: drama/romance

Blown by the Winds of Chance

Chapter 2: a Taste for the Peculiar

Scowling down at his hands, Draco tried not to remember. 

Yet, that was easier said than done, was it not?  So many things had happened to these hands over the course of his lifetime; there were burns, cuts, blisters…there was even a scar gently etched over his wrist.  Yet, except the scar, his hands were now smooth…flawless…

 Yet, the episode had taken place only a few hours before, and it rested uneasily on his mind.  It haunted him, each scene, one after another after another…

Draco continued to grimace. It was not the memories of the previous summer which now haunted him in the darkness of his chamber…it was the fact that He had managed, as every time before, to succeed where Draco had failed miserably.  It had not been an unworthy match, of sorts, but it was the fact that Draco's fame, and perhaps pleasure, had lay in something which had been a foot away from his finger tips.  For a moment, as he had hung precariously on his broom, crouching on the handle as he attempted to lean forward and walk along the wooden branch, his finger had touched the metallic coolness of the snitch. However, that was all. No more than a feathery touch.

It was surprising how a little piece of enchanted metal could cause so much…fury…

Hope had risen inside his throat, and momentarily crazy, almost delusional thoughts has skipped through his head—Potter had been a good hundred meters last time he had checked…it was all his…all his…

Yet, for what seemed the millionth time, a good-looking boy with emerald green eyes snatched it away from him.  A slight, almost harsh smirk had rested on the boys' lips as he shot directly from underneath him, his long smooth fingers clutching firmly about the sphere. Draco had felt the warmth of the hands of his enemy…and for a second they seemed almost comforting… Then, the emotion had vanished, and instead, a bright, cheerful, and heartfelt smile had rested on Potter's lips. The smile was too good-natured—Draco would not have hated the prat half as much if the boy gloated about his…'skill'. Yet, Mr. Harry Potter was too good to brag about the fact that his team always won with him by its side. He was too proud to gloat about the fact that he had been the youngest Seeker in about fifty years—no, Harry Potter never gloated.

Harry, Draco realized, had not even given him another glance—as though his existence was something temporary, like a fly that would eventually die come winter. That fucking bastard was always finding some way or another to worm his way into the hearts of the teachers…even Snape had turned rather soft.  Especially this year, what with Voldemorts rise to power yet again. Did Snape actually fear the power of Voldemort, did Snape actually believe that Harry, a fifteen-year-old boy, could stop the likes of him?  However nice and quaint the thought was, no matter how much it appealed to Draco, the reality was extremely far-fetched.

As the clock stuck eleven o'clock on a Sunday evening, that Draco had resolved that this would not be the case anymore.  Despite the fact that their (dare he say, 'relationship'?) had become much more subdue…the fact was that the two still despised one another.  Yet, with their maturing over the summer, it was really not violence, as much as it had become a battle of words.

Potter's vocabulary had grown too extensive.

Potter knew that Draco subsisted, as he did every week in potions (when Draco took it upon himself to pay the four eyed prat back)—but did the git realize that his very presence was over powering his soul?  It was always something about The-Boy-Who-Lived, always something he had managed to overcome, or something brave he had risked…But did Harry ever give Draco a second glance, and wonder how much his attitude affected people…?  The bastard practically made his life a living hell, and did he even realize this??  Could the boy be that stupid?

Now, Draco thought to himself, the time has come.

Harry could and would not over look him, and when the boy had finally given in to his presence, his trust…he would get his revenge.  The plan was really that simple, so simple that it could  not fail. Draco would not let it fail…

Of all the books that his father owned, there were only a few Muggle pieces in his collection.  These books, no doubt, must have been full of some intelligence, even if the foolhardy wrote them…his father must have found various scattered words of wisdom. Or perhaps, his father only kept them to acknowledge his own superiority when it came to the unenlightened ones…But, even his father was not as arrogant as that; to be arrogant required that one thought that they were better than some other majority…no, his father was not arrogant, because he knew he was superior.  Therefore, Draco had only assumed these books were worthwhile.  It was for that reason that he had sent the newly hired house elf to retrieve a few from the manner at the beginning of November.  Now, three days later, they were in his possession.  Why exactly he had summoned them to his side, he was not quite sure, not even now, what earthly use would they be to him? He knew much more compared to these floundering people.  He knew spells that most had only dreamed of in their nightmares—he knew history that the teachers did not know existed.  Perhaps the one subject that Draco was lacking on, was the life, and words of the Muggles. 

  The books were dusty and faded, like the intellect of the Muggles.  Yet, nevertheless, a presence to them that drew him in; something abstract in form, yet its trance undoubtedly noticeable…

Picking up a crimson book he flipped through the pages, one after another, occasionally pausing to read an interesting paragraph.  The text was old, and faded, a few spots blurred by water marks, the golden paged slightly crinkled.  The parchment smelled dimly of mildew, and a spice he could not quite classify. The binding of the book itself was rather distressed, the inferior strength of the whatever binding the Muggles did use was finally meeting its end; yet the contents were as rich and powerful as they had once been…if ever

Despite the fact that the book was written by a Muggle, the title intrigued him…

The Art of War

Draco did not deny that he appreciated the efforts that had been made to stylize this brutish sport.  The thought had always intrigued him, even as a child, imaginary fields had sprung eternal in his heart, in which the deafening cry of the warriors were heard, yet only momentarily, as their life was swept away in one fluid motion.  These pastimes of his youth had been suppressed when his father had decided that the time had come to mature and become established in Wizarding society. 

Flipping lazily to the back of the book, to what appeared to be one of the last chapters, his eyes glossed over the old parchment, until, he hesitated before reading a paragraph which seemed to be comprised of possibilities indeed. Even before he had read one word, a few distorted thoughts flew across his mind—

What if someone saw him? What if they found out he was actually reading Muggle literature?

The panic subsided, gradually, and his eyes once again fell to the paper…

  We may distinguish six kinds of terrain,
to wit:  (1) Accessible ground; (2) entangling ground;
(3) temporizing ground; (4) narrow passes; (5) precipitous
heights; (6) positions at a great distance from the enemy.
His eyebrow rose slightly, nearly entranced by the information.  His eyes danced across the page spellbound by the scrawling, ancient text.  When he pulled away so suddenly, and nearly threw the book across the room, it surprised even himself.  It had been too close for comfort.  His lips formed a sneer, as he muttered venomously, side stepping the book as it lay in a heap by the fire, "Muggles…"
Scowling bitterly, Draco ran his long fingers through his hair, which glinted silver in the light of the evening.  Swiftly he made his way to the common room, where great lush curtains of emerald and murky black cloaked the shadowy stonewalls of the dungeon, lit by the unnatural glow of green glass and the dim light of the waxing moon in the wintry night sky. Even there, as he flung himself down across a vacant leather couch, he could  find no peace.  The images of Potter grinning amiably as he took off on his damn Firebolt as the crowd cheered around him.
Really, Potter did shine brightest, when under the spotlight.  He was one of the few, who would stand up the challenge of being a celebrity, although most of the time, he only managed to disgrace himself even more.  Yet, there was no getting around that Potter shone, golden, almost God-like, compared to the other students of the school.  Perhaps it was the trust, and warmth in his eyes which people found so appealing, or maybe it was his casual way of speaking, talking—even making the first year's feel as though they were equal.  Of course, Draco sneered, it was the trust and warmth in Harry's eyes that he hated.  Although he had only seen Harry delivering his attitude towards other people (he himself had been blessed with cold, almost steely textures in the eyes of his enemy, whenever they met.  Draco would not have it any other way.  Malfoy and Potter could not be enemies on the second Tuesday and every Saturday during the month.  Hating Potter was a full time job.) Draco himself had rather come to despise Potter for fitting too easily into this hero roll.  Potter licked his lips too much at this opportunity. 

Grasping for a goblet that lay on the olive side table, he stared at its dark depths.  It was a mulled wine, flavored with a collection of fruits, including pomegranates, cherries, and cranberries.  The taste was light, and airy, and it traveled down his throat in a way that was truly divine. Slow, steady, delicious.  Yet, tonight, the brew had taken on another form, and his pink lips paused on the brink of the crystal goblet.  The color was that of blood.  Yet, more so, it resembled the colors of Gryfindor.  The scarlet glinted gold in the firelight, and the liquid appeared innocent, as though he could merrily drink from the enemies' lips.  To drink this wine was almost to drink a part of Potter and all that he stood for.

Draco stood up suddenly, his dark cloak slightly undone around his shoulders, revealing the pale skin of his collarbone, shockingly white against the black blouse that lay underneath.  His brows creased ever so slightly, and his body remained motionless for a moment.  Gryffindor was one thing; yet, wine was something completely different. Wine did come in varying tints of shade, as it was supposed to, however much they were similar to the color of the rival house…what he was doing, the actions he would take—they were ludicrous.

I am beginning to fear drinking a cup of wine because of stupid Potter. Draco thought darkly, repulsed by his own proceedings.

Swiftly he took a shallow sip, his lips instantly tainted by the richness and absolute beauty of the fluid.  It repulsed him.  He flung the chalice into the raging flames, and watched at it was slowly consumed by the fire, which seemed now, to bleed burgundy as the wine did on his lips.

The smiling face could not escape from the workings of his mind. He could not look away.


The day had dawned gloriously, the high clouds edges were burnt to a color of deep scarlet, slowly fading into a slight pink, and then finally, as all sunsets had to have, there was the playful wisps of yellow, a creamy yellow, like that of buttercups.  Few people saw this glorious weather, for it was seven in the morning, and most were scurrying to get themselves prepared for the oncoming day.  Harry Potter was one of these people, although he had paused shortly and gazed out the window.  A smile had reached his lips, a sad smile, and then, his head had turned swiftly as Ron shouted across the room if he could borrow a pair of Harry's clean socks—as all of his were down with the house elf's at the moment.  Harry had moved away from the window, the sunrise growing fainter and fainter in his minds eye.

By the time Harry had made it to the greenhouses, with Ron and Hermione traipsing along the green grassy banks which led to the area, the thought of the sunrise that morning had almost completely vanished.  A cool autumn wind was causing Harry's dark cloak to billow in the wind, and passersby walking on the gravel paths of the school ground would stop and study the retreating figure.  Ron trotted down the slope, until he rather tumbled into Harry, knocking him slightly off balance, and he stumbled.

"Oh, sorry about that, Harry." Ron apologized.

Harry grinned, and gave him a 'your-always-so-clumsy' sort of look.  Ron groaned slightly, and Hermione, who was now on the other side of Harry, questioned, "What is it, Ron?  Did you forget your book?"

Harry, correcting, "Actually, Hermione, we weren't supposed to bring our book, remember? Professor Sprout told us that on Tuesday."

It was now Hermione's turn to groan gently, as she grumbled, "Of course! How could I have forgotten?"

"Easily." Ron smirked, "I am surprised you keep up so well as you do.  Since your not taking extra classes this year, you just have to sign up for all these extra-credit projects."

"I enjoy them." Hermione responded primly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

Harry just laughed.  Despite the years that the three had known one another, it was still the same.

"Its not that I don't like Botany, or anything like that." Ron began, as they neared the greenhouse, where the students were standing, some of them in mittens, others in scarves.  The darkness of the robes was uniform, but there were groups of gold and scarlet, and then clumps of green and silver. "Its just that, why do we ALWAYS have to have Botany with…the Slytherin's?"

Harry nibbled his lip thoughtfully for a second, still rather hungry, because all he had wanted this morning was a piece of toast, and a cup of tea.  He was beginning to regret that choice, but it was of no matter now.  His eyes glinted in the sunlight that was streaming though the wispy clouds above his head.  The cool wind from the ocean feathered his hair slightly, and every now and then the thin sliver of his scar could be glimpsed from underneath it.

"Well, we have to suffer through them with Potions, and that is comparatively better. Although, it would be nice to have Transfiguration with Ravenclaw…at least I could learn a whole lot more with them.  They at least have brains, and don't snigger through most of the lesson."  Hermione sighed, as she pulled a piece of her hair (which over the summer had calmed some) behind her ear.

"I don't know if they snigger…" Harry began gently, gazing at the clumps of the rival house.  Ron and Hermione glanced at him startled, yet, as Harry continued, there expression turned into one of agreement, "I just think they are thinking of how they are going to sabotage Gryffindor in the next match—and look where that has got them?"  An almost malicious smirk resided on his lips, as his eyes focused on a silver haired boy, with his back turned to them.

"That's true, I expect." Hermione nodded.

"Just goes to show you how smart they are, haven't beat us yet. Probably won't as long as you're on the team." Ron grinned amiably, as they joined the other of their house, who began to ask Hermione's opinion on what they were going to do today.  Sprout had kept it quite a secret, so it seemed.

"Well, we do have you on the team now, Ron." Harry admitted, nudging the friend slightly.  His eyes unconsciously slid to the silver haired figure once again, whose gray eyes were cold and dark, like the shadow of the castle the company was now standing in.   His lips twitched, and formed a slight sneer, before looking quickly away.

"Class!" Professor Sprout called, as she walked, or rather, strode, across the lawn by which all of them had just come. As she approached, she began, "As all of you know I asked you not to bring your books today, although we hardly ever use them as it is, but today, I wanted to make sure you would not be bogged down with the extra weight."  Her earthy colored eyes slide to Hermione's book clutched in her hands.  Taking out her wand, she mumbled a few words, and instructed, "Put it in your bag now, Ms. Granger, when we return to the castle it will take its original weight.  For the time being, it should not bother you."  Hermione quickly put the now feather light book into her satchel and waited.

"Today, we will be studying Pedagog's. Now, can anyone tell me what that is?"  Once again, her earthy eyes fell to Hermione, who stood with her hand raised primly in the air. Yet, the orbs moved ever so slightly, and fell to the dark-haired boy besides her, "Mr. Potter? Do you know?"

All eyes fell to The-Boy-Who-Lived, and waited.  It was usually not the case that Mr. Potter knew the answers, especially when it came to Botany.  Usually, his best was Transfiguration and Defense Against the Dark Arts—but usually not Botany, and never Potions.

The green eyes, now turned almost black, flicked silently to Hermione's poised figure in front of him.  When he spoke, it was a deep, quiet, almost shy voice.  A voice few had heard.

"I believe…" he began, suddenly feeling like an innocent and foolish first year, "That a Pedagog is a type of succulent which grows near the sea.  Depending on which way it is brewed, its powers can either be used as a poison, or healing."

A triumphant smile resided over the Professor's lips, as she nodded, and said, "Nicely put, Mr.Potter. Five points to Gryffindor."

There was a hushed exclamation on the side of the Gryffindor's, and a dull, testy silence by the others.

Clapping her hands together, Sprout began, "The Pedagog's are in season between autumn and winter.  Snow is expected next week, and so, I have decided to make a field trip out of this for us, before we are confined to the green houses."

A girl from Slytherin's house raised her hand, and questioned, "Professor Sprout, where are we going to find them? Surely not the Forbidden Forest?"

There was a general growing of anxious voices, but with a wave of her rather large hand, the Professor silenced the classes' questions, "There is a reason it is called the Forbidden Forest.  It is forbidden, and even I will not over look that.  No, we will be skirting around its edges, and up into the hills surrounding the castle.  We should be back in time for lunch.  The walk will give us all an appetite." A cheerful smile came to the Professor's lips, "But, before we go, I will be assigning partners."

Harry and Ron exchanged looks—rather worried ones at that.  Their anxiety was confirmed as Professor Sprout continued, "Today, I will be matching you will people from opposite houses."

The voices quickly rose in disagreement.  No one was pleased with this turn of events.

"Pansy Parkinson with Ron Weasely!" she began, going through a list of names she had just summoned out of her pocket.  Ron groaned slightly.  Harry just whispered, "It could have been worse, you could have got—"

"Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy!"  She continued, her voice competing over the increasing volume.

"—Malfoy…" Harry breathed.  His eyes were now narrowed slightly in frustration, as he turned to glare at the silver haired man, whose turbulent eyes were now watching him from across the grassy expanse.  The expression was hard to read—there was loathing, as there always was… 

…Yet there was something different. 

There was a gentler gleam in his eye, a softer sneer to his lips. This only caused him to look more dangerous.  He stood; his arms thrust into his cloak, the remaining yards of fabric billowed in the ocean wind.  Harry cast his emerald eyes downward, then, quickly turned the opposite direction, and began to condole Hermione and Ron.  Harry knew that it was only at the last possible moment, in which Harry would approach Draco.  Until that time…the bastard could manage quite well on his own.  Harry was positive that Draco did not Harry's desire company and the feelings were the same for him.

In fact, Harry mused, he was sure.


"Class!" Professor Sprout called from atop a wind swept hill, her large great simple colored cloak billowing slightly, "Use shovels and pales to gather them. I expect a full bucket from each group."  She waved her wand, gripping onto her parasol as a sudden gust of wind attacked it violently, and fifteen pairs of brightly colored hand shovels and large tin pales crashed onto the bank.  "Be careful, it's a trifle muddy!"

She gathered a pale, and shovel, and Neville and herself swept across to some outcropping where the blue-tinged succulents were fast reproducing.  On the half an hour walk to this place ,that no one knew existed, she had explained the uses, color, smell, general appearance of the plant, and how to successfully dig it up to transplant. Nobody had been much paying attention—some were weary of the Forbidden Forest, which they skirted for sometime, until finally walking up into the hills behind the castle, others were marveling that no body had ever noted the path, and the surroundings before; but most, like Ron and Hermione were complaining about there partners for most the trip. Hermione had received Goyle, and Ron and Harry were at least somewhat grateful that both of them had received partners with somewhat of an intellect.

Harry now eyed the students who were snatching buckets and pales and heading off across the hilltop meadow, most rather intrigued by the landscape and noon sun, rather than the task.  The crowds of cloaks melted away, and only a figure remained, the one of Draco Malfoy.  Once again, like the years and years before, an icy, disgusted look lay in his eyes.  A sudden burst of wind caused Draco's silvery hair to blow in the breeze, yet, only ever so slightly.

Stepping towards the cloaked figure, determined to suffer through this, Harry mumbled, his eye contact never breaking with the Slytherin, "Shall we get on with this?"

The boy shrugged, and slowly made his way across the green field.

"Are you even going to even try to collect these, or am I going to be forced to do this for the both of us?" Harry asked warily, glaring up at Draco, who was now at his side, a slight, smug smile on his lips.

"Well, now that you suggested, Potter, I would not like to delude yourself of your mission."  He spoke the words so fluidly, and with such grace, that it was as though he had been thinking of this repartee for some time now.

"That's not what I meant, damn it." Harry spat bitterly.  Then, on impulse, he whirled around, and said harshly, "Listen, Malfoy, do you think I would really want you as a partner?  All I want to do is get this done with, and sooner off this damn hill, the better."

He could not really tell whether Draco was surprised by the minor outburst.  For a moment, there was an expression of surprise, but it soon died away.  His eyes narrowed, and a smug grin came to the face of his enemy. Yet, it was the words which slapped him in the face, rather than the expression, the stance, and the over all manner.

"As you wish."

Harry watched in incredulity as Draco sauntered over to a grassy knoll, and called, "Potter, hurry the fuck up."


"Are you planning on helping?" Harry grunted in an irked voice, "Or are you planning on sitting, and watching me?"

"The later, I presume…" Draco yawned as he scratched his cheeks, pretending to look out at the vista.

There was a moment's silence as Harry continued to dig up the plants.  As he sat there, listening to the movement of cloth, and Harry's breathing, he found himself classifying all the information which he had received in their brief exchange of words.  To begin with: Harry obviously did not hate him, as he thought—because hate would have required action.  And, as both of them were men of action—the fact that no consequences had been delivered—well…there was obviously a sincere dislike, but it was not a loathing.

His brows furrowed, Perhaps I am reading too much into this…

His eyes slid to Harry who was seated next to him on a tuft of ground. 

"Typical, of your kind." The figure seethed angrily through his teeth, as he dug angrily into the ground.

Rousing himself for the challenge, he questioned icily, "What is that supposed to mean, Potter?"

The raven-haired boy glanced up, his expression hard, and unreadable, "What do you think it means? I thought I made it perfectly clear."  A slight questioning smirk resided on his lips.  "For you or your family to actually contribute something, anything, positive is very rare and rather ludicrous in thought."

Draco stiffened, his fingers clenching the grass around him, "You tread on thin ice, Potter."

Harry said nothing, but instead tossed a spade in his direction and mumbled, "Really, now?"

After about a minutes' silence, Draco conceded and began to dig along side The-Boy-Who-Lived.  If he was going to do this labor, he might as well make use of it.

"Yes, Potter, really.  At least my parents are still around, unlike yours.  Poor pathetic fools."

"I would have rather them die, than turn into something as twisted as you, Malfoy." Harry grumbled as he tossed a Pedagog into the pale, and began to dig up another.

"Your full of crap, you know that Potter?  You think that you can waltz into our world, just because you have your forehead all gashed—and act as if you have been born, and brought up in it.  Half the things you hear are only from your Muggle loving friend, and his crackpot family."  Draco seethed, as he began to pull at a Pedagog's bulb from out of the soft earth.

"Malfoy, that may be true. I may not have been raised here, in 'this world'—but I would rather that Muggles brought me up than ever resemble anything such as you. A narrow minded, arrogant, and self centered ass, as well as the rest of your family."  Tossing one more last Pedagog's into the tin pail, Harry hoisted himself up off the ground and made his way towards a distant flock of finished Gryffindor's.  There was a slight smell in the air, carrying moisture, as though a great storm was rolling in from across the Atlantic. Things could have gone worse, Harry thought darkly, pushing his glasses up from the brink of his nose.


A trickle of something cold, thick, and liquid could be felt against the back of his neck, and slowly, painfully slow, it slid, almost seductively, down into the small of his back.  His hair was matted in the mixture of earth and rain, and his glasses were now slightly speckled with the shade of umber.

Flashing around so quickly that few even noticed the movement, Harry stalked up the silver haired boy, who now causally was holding in his hand another handful of dripping, oozing mud.

"What the fuck was that for, Malfoy?" Harry spat angrily, now some three yards away from him, scooping what he could off the back of his neck, and preventing it from dripping down onto his collarbone, and then his chest.

Malfoy's eyes, once lit with hatred, now darkened to a dangerously cold gray, like that on a frosty morning of winter, only weak light penetrating the skies above.

"Potter, understand one thing—however much we may detest each other, you better understand the consequences for bringing my parents and their name into the conversation."

There was a long tense silence, in which Harry desperately tried to control his actions.  His hands were already instinctively moving towards his wand hidden inside the darkness of his cloak.

"You're a fucking hypocrite. You insult my family, and think I won't give a shit!" Harry narrowed his eyes testily, "I have got a right to talk about your family, after all, your consulting muttering things about mine, I'm sure."  Harry, thinking quickly, and remembering that he was not supposed to use magic (but more for the fact that he did not feel like getting a weeks detention from Sprout, and having to spend it with this asshole), scooped up a piece of sludge and quickly flung it directly onto Draco's upper torso, "Now, go sod off."

Realistically, it could not have been that simple.


That was it, Harry snarled to himself, as he reached for the new pile of mud which was melting down his back.

Turning abruptly towards Draco, Harry tackled the startled boy and swiftly pinned him to the grassy turf.  A slow and whimsical grin fell onto Draco's features, as he replied smoothly, "My my Potter, aren't you the coy one."
Harry smirked, as his eyes roamed over Draco's features for a fraction of a second, straying particular the opened mouth, "Absolutely. Didn't you know, I've been attracted to you for years?"  His lips were dripping venom, angrily, bitterly, and Harry's eyes were now a sea of tumultuous green against the wintry cream of his skin, contrasting beautifully with the deep color of his hair.

"Really?" A smooth sculpted eyebrow rose slightly in interest, "You have no modesty as well."

Draco, as he lay there, against a sea of long threads of billowing grass, found it rather hard to concentrate on witty repartees.  If he could hear exactly what he was saying, he, no doubt, would be revolted.  Even from the lack of pain and anguish in Harry's expression, he could tell that he was failing miserably.  The fact that Harry's leg were now touching something very dear to him in-between his legs; and the fact that Harry was searching his features, the green eyes ever roaming over some new feature that he found fascinating; and the fact that Harry's lips were slightly parted, revealing a smooth pink lower lip; and the fact that he was getting spirited away to some unknown place with Harry Potter made it all the more hypnotic…if not disgusting.

Yet, Draco yelled at himself, he had to concentrate.  If he was to discover Potter's weakness, and the key to his downfall, he must have more stamina, which, at the moment, he was not displaying, despite how intoxicating his scent was…

A strange gleam came to Harry's eye, a gleam never yet seen before by man.  It was dark, possessive, sensual…all these things which the mass majority thought Harry could and would not be comprised of.  His hands now trembled slightly, however resolute his expression was, the hunger in his eyes now gave it away. It was a farce.  So many things were.

Scooping up a cold handful of sludge, he weighed it in his hand, as though measuring the amount that was held there.  His eyes never left Draco's form.  Almost dimly aware of the rest of his body, Harry felt his left hand gently brushing against the slacks that Draco now wore.  They hugged his body, revealing the curves to his form.  This touch excited him on a primal level, and quickly wrenching his thoughts away from the dark abyss that he dared not tred into, he spoke.

"Malfoy, you're a bastard."

Draco said nothing—the answer, if there was one, was in his eyes.  A pensive, angry, torment of gray upon a milky backdrop of an icy winters day.  It was a painful look, that of hatred, disgust, torment unknown, and it throbbed angrily, brutally, and soon, Harry's smile fell away from his lips, the enjoyment he had been partaken in gone. 

Although the pleasure had been diminished from the situation, this was not to say Harry was giving up so fully in troubling and annoying Draco, as the other had done since his beginning at the school.  It had and would continue this way.  Their loathing, and spite for one another was a relationship that was destined; like that foreordained night of his success, of his infamy…

His lips, now slightly downtrodden, creased together—his eyes dark, emotionless, like two unseeing pools in which there was no depth.

"Potter…" Draco began, it a voice he did not even know he posses. It was soft, silent, and almost melancholy, yet the power lurked behind it, even now.  The hatred, the anger, the violence, all were carefully concealed behind this voice, this voice which to some was tender, yet to others slashed bitterly through all their barriers like a double edged sword.

Draco, as he lay there, painfully aware of the fact that Harry lay on top of him, one hand pressing down against his shoulder, the other brushing against his upper leg, desperately tried to find, to grasp, some information in which he could use to torment the boy's existence.  There must be something in which, in later times, he could use to blackmail the boy. There must have been…

Yet, he was now grasping at air, as he fell deeper, and darker, and harder—as though he could feel, that that icy grip of a Dementor at his heart.  For one terrible wrenchingly dark moment, he saw his life, his heart, his being, for what it really was. He was an outsider, looking in—and it appalled him tremendously.  He could not even pity himself in that moment, for he knew: the pity and spite that he so often felt, were caused by him. There was not one to blame, no one to hate, and no one to swear against—there was himself, his worst enemy.

Moreover, suddenly, almost as soon as he had started, his eyes returned to focus, and no longer was Harry atop of him.  No longer was his arm body briefly merging with him. He could feel the wind now, frighteningly cold against his damp shirt, a mess with mud and his cold sweat.

Harry idly withdrew from his cloaks his gleaming wand—the wand Draco had rescued from inhalation earlier that year.  He continued to watch as Harry murmured some spell and pointed his wand at his sprawled figure.  He felt nothing, but, realizing that there must have been some affect; he looked down to see great splotches of ink on his uniform.  Yet, what lay in front of him did not matter.  He was still recovering from the minute before—from the things he had seen, done, and felt.

Yet, one must, as the lovely British show said: keep up appearances.

And so, arranging his figures into one of hatred, and disgust (as he was so used to) he gazed angrily at Potter, who now was slowly making his way across the grassy meadow, the golden midday sunlight picking up bits of the lightest traces of umber in his hair.

Licking his lips, Draco could still taste Potter's scent.  Smirking, Draco buckled his coat underneath his chin, and grabbed the tin bucket at his side.  Potter would pay for that little sideshow trick of his…


AN: I wish I could write Draco like all the other people. Cold. Heartless, andwith REALLY good comebacks, but unfortunately, I am having major brain damage over these last chapters.  Now, incase you guys ARE wondering, I am skipping through the months. The first chapter was in September, and this chapter takes place in late November. I hope you guys are enjoying this. I added a bit more action in this chapter, as well as a bit of length. Nothing won't be too physical  until later chapters.