Title: We All Die Anyway

Author: Roslyn Drycof

Rating: PG-13

Warning: mild slash, angst, and swearing

Pairing: Harry/Draco

Summary: "One day, we all die anyway. . ." Poetry begins appearing on the wall of the prefects' bathroom and everyone is curious as to who the two authors are. Especially the two authors. Who is the other writer? HPDM. ONESHOT. COMPLETE.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or anything affiliated with Harry Potter and Co. in any way. All poetry featured in this fic is mine, though.


You can take my words however you want,

as happy or sad or downright jaded.

I don't care which, they are just words.

We all say words, most don't mean a thing.

You just decide which to hear,

which are worthwhile to you.

Hear me now if you want,

listen to my parting words,

my tribute to a dead world.

"One day, we all die anyway."

These words were found scrawled across the bathroom of the prefects' bathroom the second day of Harry Potter's sixth year. They were words that struck a terrible chord in the hearts of the students of Hogwarts. Everyone was curious to know who wrote the poem, morbidly curious. Who could be so depressed that they'd go and write something like this?

Weeks passed and no one stepped forward to claim authorship of the graffiti. And the funny thing was, nobody got rid of it. The Headmaster stopped Professor Snape from erasing the piece, instead saying that it had been put there for a reason. Dumbledore did not know who wrote the chilling words, but he knew it had been done not as petty vandalism, but as a point someone was trying to make. He made sure it stayed up.

A month into the school year, the curiosity died down. The words became just another part of Hogwarts, just like the Moaning Myrtle haunted the girls' bathroom. People still wondered who wrote it, but it wasn't the focus of everyone's gossip anymore.

Things calmed down on the campus as everyone settled into the new school year. That is, until a new poem appeared on the wall. Terry Boot discovered it one night and the news spread like wildfire. Countless students found their way into the prefects' bathroom to see this new poem. Even more than before. Why? Simple. This new poem was by someone else. And the emotion between the two was so similar, it was disturbing. Dumbledore didn't let this one be erased either.

I am a lie.

For years I've tried

to be on the inside.

Forever I've wanted

to be someone else.

But I can't fool myself anymore;

I'll never be accepted.

Always on the outside,

desperately dreaming

I'd someday belong.

It isn't going to happen.

I don't know how to fit in.

I can't figure out to be like them.

I've tried and tried,

and it's never worked.

I've lied and pretended

I don't give a damn.

But you know what?

I do, I really do.

Harry Potter hadn't really gotten into the whole buzzing curiosity about the first poem like his fellow students had. But the appearance of the second poem immediately caught his attention. Who dared to lessen my work with a piece of trash?

Yes. Harry James Potter, the savior of the wizarding world and the Golden Boy of Hogwarts was the author of the first poem. And he was furious that someone had written something else near his masterpiece. As soon as he could sneak away, he went to go look at the second poem himself.

I thought it would be shit, but it rivals my own. In fact, it complements mine. Who could've done this? I doubt most of the students could have the writing ability or the emotion to write this. Harry was shocked at the words on the wall, scrawled in a beautiful cursive next to his own poem. The feeling behind it was powerful. His poem had been cynical and detached. This poem was slightly dispassionate and also self-mocking. And yet they could have been written by the same person if the evidence didn't state otherwise.

It was written in silver ink. His own was written in green ink. The difference was that his was scrawled messily while the other was written in flawless cursive.

To be honest, though, it gave the appearance that the poems were written by Slytherin. Green and silver? Mighty suspicious. Harry was glad in a way, because it completely threw everyone off.

Staring at the words of the second poem, he suddenly felt more alive than he'd had in months. A smile that was actually quite creepy and twisted looking appeared on his features and he lifted his wand to a bare patch of wall. Luckily, the mermaid was asleep just like last time. It wouldn't do for her to see him and be able to identify the author.

In green streaks, he began writing words that were ripped from the pained recesses of his mind. Why green? Because his eyes were green and his logic was that if a person's eyes are the windows to their soul, writing with the color of his eyes would be like a kind of window to his soul. To his pain. And indeed, the words were a window to his soul.

His soul was full of suffering and depression, all of which was hidden beneath a flawless mask. No one even guessed that Harry Potter was anything but your usual happy/angsty teen who just happened to be The-Boy- Who-Lived. Not even Hermione and Ron.

The idea to write a poem on the wall had struck him as he was contemplated the reasons why he couldn't just end his sorry excuse for a life. Knowing he couldn't set aside his responsibilities as the only hope of the wizarding world, he had decided to put down his feelings on paper. And not finding any paper at the moment, he'd had a brilliant idea. Why not put it somewhere public and scandalize the school a bit? His inner agony was being quite cruel to him and wanted to let it out. And being as he couldn't exactly do that or ruin his good image, he decided to do it anonymously. It worked famously. Except. . .it did nothing to fill the empty hole where his heart used to be. Yes, he got a sort of twisted pleasure out of seeing McGonagall's shocked look. But it was temporary as all things are and he felt numb again. Damn.

So, Harry decided to begin a little game. He'd write a poem and hopefully the other person would respond. Maybe this little bit of competition would be a good thing to relieve the boredom that had become his life. At least for a little while, that is.

A few minutes later he finished feeling quite satisfied with himself and pocketed his wand, striding out of the prefects' bathroom. The creepy smile still hadn't left his lips. He climbed into bed fifteen minutes later with a lighter heart than he'd woken up with. Now he actually had something to look forward to. How would the other writer respond, if he or she responded at all?


Draco Malfoy was a prefect. Of course he was, being a Malfoy and all. Well, the next morning he got up early and headed towards the logical place for a prefect who wanted a private bath to go. The prefects' bathroom.

Everyone knew that early morning was his bath time and no one argued the fact. He was the son of a powerful Dark Wizard, and a cold bastard as well. Who would want to willingly mess with him? Okay, Potter did. But that was because Potter was an idiot who loved chasing trouble. Fool Gryffindork.

On this particular morning, Draco actually felt something akin to anticipation rushing through his usually ice-cold veins and leisurely strolled into the room. Why was he actually feeling a quite human emotion? Well, he was looking forward to seeing if there was another poem on the wall. He wasn't really into the morbid curiosity that the rest of the student body was, but he did have an interest in it all. Interesting in itself that the Slytherin Ice Prince had an interest in anything, these days. But he did, and that was caused by one fact. And that fact was that he was the author of the poem in silver ink.

Upon first seeing the words scrawled in emerald ink across the wall, he'd felt something deep inside of his mind. Most people would call it a pang in their heart, but it was common knowledge Draco Lucius Malfoy did not have a heart. Anyway, the lanky blond decided then and there that this was a grand opportunity to have some fun. So he brandished his wand and began writing silver words across the wall next to the first poem.

Writing those words had temporarily lifted a little of the dulled pain that resided within his soul. He had even felt better enough to smile at Pansy the next day. She'd been shocked and told him he should never smile again. It was disturbing and more than a little scary. His smile was, unfortunately, not like normal people's. It was a twisted thing that would cause any young child to howl in terror. He didn't smile again and once more retreated into his world of inner suffering a few hours later. Not because of what Pansy had said, but because nothing lasts. It never does. Draco knew this, and yet he strangely craved the feeling writing that poem had caused.

This was why he hoped the author of the first poem had written another. Well, not exactly hoped, but pretty close to the feeling as an emotionally dead person can get.

One of those creepy smiles twisted his lips as he walked into the room to find a new mess of green words on the wall. Goody.

Draco walked up to the wall which housed this poem and crossed his arms. A considering look entered his silver eyes as he contemplated it's words.

Split me open, watch me bleed;

It's okay, it's not like it hasn't been done before.

I'm a rag doll for their beating,

Just their personal whipping boy.

I'm the one they base their expectations on,

The child they take their mistakes out on.

I'm not allowed to be just me.

I can't, I'm their rag doll.

Shake me, break me, make me feel;

Pull me from this hollow hole.

I'm so sick of being here,

Of being their bloody rag doll.

Hmm. Interesting. This poem expressed a lot more emotion than the last one, and yet it also alluded to the fact that the author didn't feel emotion. The first line of the last stanza clearly showed that perfectly. Draco also got the feeling that the "bloody" in the last line of the piece didn't just mean a curse, but also as in being actually bloody like the first line of the first stanza said. Whoever this writer was, they were good. Very good.

We actually seem to have a similar level of talent. I wonder who it could be? They've obviously got skill and the emotion, or lack thereof as it seems, so who in the hellhole of a school could be writing them? I don't have a clue as to who it is. No one has shown a hint as to having either of these.

This irked the blond, and that was normally an emotion reserved for the Wonder Boy only. Potter was the only one who could raise any sort of feeling in him. It puzzled him that someone else could. I don't like this feeling. I should work to finding out who it is. Maybe their writing will give me a clue.

Brilliant idea! Now he could toy with the students and teachers and find out who this mysterious other writer was.

Rubbing his slender hands together in feral anticipation, he pulled his wand from his robe pocket and got to work on a bare patch of wall.

Afterwards, he filled up the gigantic bathtub and calmly took a bath. The mermaid was still asleep, no surprise there. The silly painting always slept till at least nine o'clock and it was only six. Lucky for him or else he'd have had to wait until night to graffiti the wall.


By the time breakfast started, the entire school knew of the two new poems. They'd been holding their breaths for mention of one new one, but two? Incredible!

Harry sat at the Gryffindor table, buttering a biscuit, when Ron plunked himself down on the bench beside him with a big grin and said, "Can you believe the news? I could 'ardly believe it myself! Two new poems! Blimey, and they're good too!"

Nevilled piped up from where he was frantically going over Potions notes. "They are a bit creepy, you have to admit. When Colin showed me a picture of them, I got the willies."

Just then, Hermione slid onto the bench on the other side of Harry and frowned at the chubby teen. "How on earth did Colin manage to develop pictures that fast? And now that you mention it, how did he manage to get in the prefects' bathroom?"

Ron ducked his head and flushed brightly. His bushy-haired friend immediately noticed. "Ron, did you let him in? That is not proper prefect behavior!"

Harry grinned and muttered, "It's a wonder he made prefect at all, 'Mione."

The redhead mock-glared at him and said to Hermione, "I'm sorry, but he looked so desperate. And you know how much better it is to let one person in and take pictures so we don't have everyone trying to get in."

She sighed and poured herself a glass of orange juice. "I guess I can't argue with that."

Ron was effectively shocked. The smartest girl in school actually agreeing with his logic? Unbelievable!

"I bet it's Slytherin writing them, just to get attention," a tenor voice thick with an Irish brogue said and Seamus Finnigan sat down next to Neville.

"Slytherin's too stupid to write such good stuff," Ron told his friend through a mouthful of bacon.

The brunette wrinkled his nose and looked put-out. "You're right. Nasty buggers wouldn't know if a big word bit 'em in the arse."

Harry snorted. He knew one Slytherin who couldn't say a single sentence that didn't have a big word in it. Draco Malfoy knew a lot of big words, fancy ones too. But Slytherin couldn't have written it, that much was obvious. What did those unfeeling bastards know about pain and suffering? Nothing, not a single, goddamned thing.

"Watch it Potter, snorting like that too much might turn you into a horse. But wait, you already are a filthy barnyard animal. My mistake," a very familiar voice drawled.

The raven-haired teen turned around and saw none other than Draco Malfoy standing there, a sneer on his narrow face. "Fuck you, Malfoy. You're the animal here, not me. Or did you not remember your sojourn as a ferret?"

Anger flared in Draco's silver eyes. "At least I don't mourn a filthy mutt who should've stayed in his kennel right where he belonged."

Everyone in the vincinity gasped. He did not just say that!

Fury shook Harry's voice as he slowly stood and glared at his enemy. "You watch your mouth or you'll find yourself in a hole six feet under. Got it?"

Draco's mouth tightened into a thin line. Potter just had a death wish, didn't he? Threatening him, Draco Lucius Malfoy, was the idiot out of his mind? Probably, if the blank look in his eyes was any indication. . .wait a minute. That look in Potter's eyes was oddly familiar. Why?

He stared into his rival's emerald eyes and found something he didn't expect. Pain. Lots of it. The bloody git was practically swimming in a pool of suffering! Just like he was. Fuck. That wasn't something he'd expected to see in the Golden Boy's eyes.

Harry's eyes narrowed as Malfoy just stared at him. He searched the other boy's mercury eyes and frowned. There was something oddly familiar about Malfoy's mask. About Malfoy's empty eyes. What the hell? Was that what he thought it was? But how could Malfoy be full of inner suffering? Surely it wasn't possible. . .and yet, it apparently seemed like it was.

A few seconds later Draco suddenly snapped out of his inspection and hissed, "This isn't over, Potter."

And he turned to walk away, just as Harry whispered, "Oh, it isn't. It's just beginning."

A shiver ran through the blond-haired teen. There had been no anger in Potter's voice, just a hollow sort of promise? Anticipation? He didn't know, and didn't want to know. Draco stalked off, his shoulders tense with the knowledge that Potter was staring at him as he left. Damn the bloody idiot!

"Harry? Why're you staring after Malfoy?" Ron's confused voice brought Harry's attention back to the present and not lost in his churning thoughts anymore.

"I just decided I'm looking forward to our next encounter."

Hermione gasped, "Why?!"

"Because I just found out something very interesting about our favorite ferret." A creepy smile twisted Harry's mouth.

"Stop that! You're scaring me," Ron told him, nervously biting his lip. Harry sure had been acting weird since Sirius' death. Very weird.

"Sorry," his friend apologized, not looking the least bit sorry.

Harry sat down again and began eating the rest of his biscuit, ignoring the chatter that had suddenly overtaken the Great Hall. Ugh. Why couldn't people be a little quieter? Especially considering it was still early in the morning?

That evening, Harry found himself once again in the prefects' bathroom. He was amazed at the stupidity of the school for not changing the password in all the years since the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Everywhere else they were strict about password changing every week, and here they didn't care. Interesting, since prefects were supposed to be the special ones in the school.

Harry thought it was amusing. It also let him come here quite easily. Ah well, others' mistakes are always another's opportunity. He walked into the room, mentally casting a few complex locking spells on the door. The mermaid was awake, and he silenced her outcry with a quick "Obliviate! Stupefy!"

Five months ago, he would've felt guilt for doing that. But now all he got from it was a small satisfaction. His morals had been quite lax lately, and to be honest, he quite preferred it that way. Lying and creating large deceptions did have a common effect of creating much guilt. But without morals, a person could lie and sneak about without any adverse consequences to one's conscience.

Brushing aside the hair that was threatening to cover his eyesight, Harry stepped towards the patch of wall beside his second poem. Silver words gleamed brightly and he felt another creepy smile twist his mouth. Good. The other writer wasn't averse to playing a little game.

He read the words twice, recognition striking him at the emotion behind them. How true, how very true.

Your hell is when you dream

and I'm awake.

Look into your heart

for I have none.

Find the answer you so desperately seek,

and maybe this deception will end.

You never chose to play this game,

and yet you pretend nothing is real.

I'm made of ice

and you pay the price.

Can't you see

that I'm here inside of you?

Can't you see

that I am you?

How many times have I felt exactly like that? Too many to count. It's like there's two sides of me, although my second half seems to be winning more and more lately. Harry immediately had the urge to know who the author was. He'd wondered before, but now he desperately wanted to know. Needed to know. Knowing someone felt the exact same things as he did, felt the same pain and emptiness, he just had to know who the author of the poems in silver ink was.

But how was he to find out who he or she was? Harry leaned against the wall and slid slowly to the floor. Maybe if I wait I'll find out who it is. It was a logical guess, since the other author would probably be curious to see how he reacted to the poem.

And if the other writer didn't appear, there was always the chance they'd meet some other time. Now that he wanted to meet him, Harry was willing to wait forever to do so. He closed his eyes and did the exercises he'd been taught to do to make it harder for the link to appear between him and Voldemort. Tonight, he didn't particularly relish seeing some poor muggles murdered or a Death Eater being punished.

The funny thing about doing the exercises for so long was that they had a strong effect on him. Emptying his mind of all emotion became like breathing to him. And after Sirius' death, it had become a way to stay alive. To keep on living when he would rather just die.

Hours passed with Harry catching a few minutes of sleep here and there. But even when his did fall asleep, his senses were still stretched out to notice any interruption. Any movement that suggested someone was entering the room.

Morning arrived and the raven-haired teen was about to get up and leave, when he felt someone breaking the locking spells on the door. An interesting phenomenon considering the fact that he was very adept at those kind of spells. Most students would have no clue as to how to begin breaking them.

A small smile twisted his lips as he gracefully got to his feet. He crossed his arms across his chest and waited for the intruder to step into the room. He didn't have to wait long.

The portrait hole opened and a familiar lanky form stepped through. Shock filled each of them as they stared at each other.

"You?" Draco Malfoy uttered, a raised eyebrow accompanying the exclamation.

Harry quickly regained his composure. "Fancy meeting you here, Malfoy."

The silver-eyed blond closed the portrait hole and crossed his arms. "You're not a prefect."

"Did you expect me to be? I've known the password since fourth year. It was pathetically easy to get in."

Draco glared at him. He couldn't believe it was Potter. But, there was no doubting he was the first writer. Green ink, which spoke of a similar logic to what he'd used in picking a color to write with. And the empty emotion he'd seen in the Gryffindor's eyes yesterday was another clue. It all fell into place.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he stared at his enemy. "Silver ink. I should've guessed."

"My thoughts exactly. But who would've thought you'd be the first writer? You're the Golden Boy of Hogwarts. Not a drop of depression in your body. At least that's what you pretend." A smirk appeared on Draco's face and his rival scowled.

"And you don't pretend, either? Your facade is much closer to the truth than mine, but you still play a big deception. Isn't that right, Malfoy?"

Draco ignored Potter's words, instead focusing on something that had bothered him about the author of the green words. "Why did you do it? Why did you suddenly decide to write that first poem?"

The raven-haired teen shrugged. "It was a way to let out the pain without people knowing it was me. And. . .I wanted to shock people."

A smile curved Malfoy's lips and Harry felt it like a punch to the stomach. Their smiles were identical! Creepy, twisted smiles that didn't convey and real emotion at all. "Ron told me my smile scared him."

Draco let out a small laugh. "Pansy told me I should never smile again."

A few minutes of comfortable silence passed. And then Draco narrowed his silver eyes and said, "I still don't get it. Why? You're the Boy-Who- Lived. Everybody worships you."

A scowl settled itself on Harry's golden features. "Yeah. That's just it. They worship me. They don't know me. All they do is heap so many expectations on me that I can't even breathe half the time!"

"I get it now. You are their rag doll. And I thought I had it bad."

"How the fuck could you have it bad? You're bloody Draco Malfoy! The richest, most pure-blood wizard in the whole school. You have everything."

Draco glared at the other boy, anger shining in his eyes. "You know nothing. I have nothing. Yeah, so I'm rich as Croesus. Who gives a shit? My father is a sadistic bastard who fawns over a maniacal monster. My mother deserves to be locked in St. Mungos because she can't even tell the difference from reality or fantasy anymore. And yeah, I'm the Slytherin Ice Prince. Oh don't act stupid, I know about that nickname. And it's true. But by being who I am makes it so I can't belong anywhere."

"The first poem. It was all about not being accepted."

"As if that wasn't already painfully obvious, Potter. You Gryffindorks can be so stupid sometimes!" the blond growled, his arms crossed tightly across his chest.

"Still as prejudiced as always, I see."

"And you're not? You're a bloody hypocrite."

"Well, I learned from the best. Isn't that right, Malfoy?"

They glared hatefully at each other from across the room. Tension escalated between them as the minutes passed and yet they still kept their gazes locked, anger fairly radiating from ever fiber of their being.

Suddenly, as if a switch was magically thrown, their anger transformed into another emotion just as intense. Just as deadly. Passion infused their bodies and they felt their faces flush and knew that their eyes went glassy.

"What the fuck?!" Draco exclaimed, his voice hoarse. What the hell had happened? One second he was hating Potter, and the next he was lusting after the git!

Harry was no less confused. He couldn't make sense of the sudden shift in emotion. But he realized one important thing. Malfoy was the only person who could cause any real emotion in him. He'd always been able to. And it was possible that since anger was a passion, the passion could twist into another form. Lust.

He swallowed harshly, his throat dry. "Malfoy, do you realize that we're the only ones who can provoke any strong emotion in each other?"

"Yeah, so? Wait. Fuck no, Potter. There is no way you're telling me that our anger was caused because of a hidden attraction. No fucking way."

Harry rolled his eyes. "No. That's ridiculous. What I am saying is that because anger is a passion, it was somehow turned into another passion. Why? I don't know. Maybe because we're sex deprived. I don't know!"

"I am not sex deprived. I happen to have a healthy sex life," Draco immediately retorted, his mouth narrowing into a thin line.

"Do you feel any real lust for them or do you just use them?"

"That's a highly personal question you're asking, Pot-head."

Harry sighed and tore his gaze away from that of his enemy's. Those silver eyes were starting unnerve him. "It's simple enough to answer."

"Fine. You really want to know? I use them."

"I figured."

Well, the lust that had started burning between them decided to up the level of desire. The two boys gasped, their skin burning almost painfully.

"Damn, I never felt like this before," Draco muttered, clenching his fists.

Harry bit his lower lip and tried to stifle the moan that was trying to escape his mouth. What the fuck was happening? He could feel emotion beating at his inner barriers, threatening to be set loose. It terrified him.

His chest heaving, he closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on shutting the emotion away. He had to or else he'd lost control and who knew what would happen. Something disastrous, probably. Unfortunately, his control was on a quickly fraying thread and threatened to break completely.

"Fuck!" Harry growled, slamming a fist against the wall. It did nothing except to cause a flash of pain. He crashed to his knees, slapping his palms against the floor and staring at the floor in a silent entreaty. But the floor couldn't do anything to help.

Draco stared at his rival, feeling his own control falling away. The lust threatened to break all the barriers he'd erected over the years to hide his emotions. To bury the weakness. Why was this happening now? Why with Potter?

Barely conscious of what he was doing, the silver-eyed blond found himself taking hesitant steps towards the Gryffindor. He didn't want to, but his body was betraying him.

"Help me," he pleaded, falling to his knees beside Potter. His breath was coming in harsh pants and his eyes were more than a bit wild.

Harry turned his head to look at the boy beside him and had to suppress a gasp. Malfoy was so beautiful, especially when his usual icy composure was gone. Malfoy looked human now and it was the most stunning sight Harry had ever had the pleasure of seeing.

"How can I help you when I can't help myself?" he whispered harshly.

They stared at each other and Draco couldn't help but notice how gorgeous Potter looked flushed and losing precious control. The git looked absolutely stunning without his mask. So human, so real. And it hit Draco like a hit to the stomach.

Harry gulped and faintly noticed he was moving towards the blond. In seconds, they were only inches apart. "Make it stop," he gasped out. The emotion, Dear Merlin, it was threatening to tear him apart! He couldn't stand it! He didn't want to feel!

A trembling, slender hand came out to touch his cheek and they were lost. Their mouths pressed together and immediately began working furiously, passion driving their every movement. Draco pulled Harry on top of him. Harry straddled his enemy, one hand going through his blond tresses and the other pressing against his muscled chest.

They slowly felt their control coming back to them after a few minutes, felt their emotions falling back behind their barriers. And yet, something was different than before. An emotion not felt ever before took up residence in a place they thought long dead. Their hearts.

Harry pulled away, leaning his forehead against Malfoy's shoulder. "Why?" he whispered brokenly, shuddering with the unfamiliar emotion gripping his heart.

Draco shook his head, concentrating on catching his breath. He felt lightheaded and the new emotion clutched at his insides. His heart beat furiously and he felt like crying. Why had his heart come back to life after all these years? It would only destroy him in the end.

"I can't do this. I can't let that feeling back in my life! It'll destroy me," Potter cried out, a few crystal tears sliding down his cheeks.

He pushed himself away from Malfoy and stood on shaky legs. His emerald eyes were wide with fear and agony. He stared at the other teen and wanted to scream out at the unfairness of it all. Why had this happened?! Why?!

Draco slowly got to his feet, a slender hand coming up to feel the wetness on his own face. He hadn't cried in so long, so long. . .

"It can't destroy us if we don't let it," he found himself saying to the raven-haired savior of the wizarding world.

"By being there it will destroy us! Love is a weakness! It only gets people killed," Harry burst out, his voice shaking with the emotion in it.

Draco looked at the green and silver words on the walls and couldn't help but agree. What was love anyway? It wasn't real. It only gave false promises that ended up killing you in the end. But. . .isn't that what he'd wanted for so long? Couldn't he allow himself to have a few precious moments of happiness before he died?

"I just remembered something my mother once said to me, the last words she spoke before the madness completely consumed her. She said, "It is better to have loved than to have never loved at all." I didn't believe her then, but now I can't help but think that maybe she was right. Can you really give up knowing a few moments of love and happiness before you die?"

Harry's lips parted as he stared at Malfoy. The Slytherin's words struck him deep inside and he knew he couldn't deny the truth of those words. He looked at the first poem in green ink and smiled wryly. He'd first written it when he was depressed and intended it to be cynical. But now? He wasn't so sure.

He quoted the last line of the poem in a whisper-soft voice, "One day, we all die anyway."

And it was true. Everyone died someday, whether it was tomorrow or eighty years from now. Did it really matter when? And if you could feel true love at one point in your life before you die, didn't that make death so much more meaningless? Life's purpose was to live, learn, and love. And then you died.

"You're right. And besides, life is about taking risks. Isn't it?" he said, turning to look at Malfoy again.

A small smile that wasn't the least bit creepy curved Draco's lips. "Yeah, it is. I should have realized that a long time ago."

"Now who's acting like a thick-headed Gryffindor?" Harry laughed, enjoying the look of horror on his rival's face.

"That doesn't leave this room, do you understand? Potter, do you understand?! POTTER!"

After a few minutes, Harry finally managed to stand up straight and gasp out, "Sure."

The sullen look left Draco's eyes and he grinned. "You up to the challenge of loving me?"

It was the first time that emotion newly settled in their newly-alive hearts was really mentioned. Both boys stared at each other, a softness in their gaze that had never been their before. It was a look that would be seen many times in the days, months, and years to come.

Looping and arm through that of his former-rival's, Harry grinned mischievously. "Are you up to it?"

They left the room together, but not before Draco raised an eyebrow and murmured, "Always."

And thus began the relationship between two of Hogwarts most unlikely people to find love together. It was a strange relationship, but who would've expected otherwise? This was Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy we're talking about. Their love was one that was as strong as anything could ever be, even amidst their frequent fights, arguments, and obstacles. They never strayed from their love, a boast most people couldn't ever hope to make. They were a match made in heaven, or hell if you consider what their previous lives had been like.

No one ever found out the identity of the two poets, although more than a few people had their suspicions. No more poems were found on the walls of the prefects' bathroom until the last day of Harry Potter's seventh year. It was a poem completely unlike the first four and it was written in both green and silver ink. That gave the appearance of having been written by both authors, together. The fact that each line alternated between a messy scrawl and a beautiful cursive also alluded to it's co- authors.

And as Harry Potter and the other seventh years graduated on a clear spring day, Albus Dumbledore stood in the prefects' bathroom. His eyes were focused on the final poem written on the wall and a smile curved his lips. In his mind, there were only two people who could have written those words. Two people whose love warmed the heart of an old man who'd seen too much war and suffering to believe it was even possible. But it was, and the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry felt life flare within his old bones. A twinkle that had been missing for the last two years reappeared in his crystal blue eyes and he turned to leave. There is hope yet left in the world. . .

Take my heart with love,

And I will cherish yours

Let our love live forever,

Eternal as the fountain of life

May we overcome all troubles,

And shine our light in the darkness

Dance with me in the moonlight,

And glory in the power of our love


A/N: This was a story that grabbed me a few days ago and wouldn't let go until I finally wrote it. I know I should be concentrating on my full- length fics, but I couldn't help but write this beautiful story. I love poetry and felt compelled to let it express the emotions of Harry and Draco. I hope you liked it. Please review and tell me how you liked this little oneshot.

Much love, Roslyn Drycof. . .