Just a small one-shot HPDM pairing fic; my first, in fact. I absolutely love the two…they're soooo adorable together, wouldn't you agree? ;-p Features work from Robert Frost (1874 – 1963).

Review if you like. No flames, please.

Fire and Ice

Nobody could have predicted when the Second War would start. It was not a particular day marked in the volumes of history, nor was it a sacred date that would, years later, doubtlessly be either cursed or venerated. No, it was more in the general feeling that swept over England did wizards and witches alike know that it had truly recommenced.

The cold crept everywhere, feeding into cracks between doors, prying under windows, seeping across those marshy hills and long, roving plains. It never failed to miss a door, an innocent heart. You couldn't predict where it would strike next. The blackness of absolute fear was rampant around the countryside. For the longer this war lasted, the more people died, the more people were tortured, the more buildings were destroyed…and the more did the walls begin to cave ever closer around Harry Potter's heart. Once so full of hope, it was now immersed in dread.

Harry had long learned to give up the childish notions of being able to defeat Voldemort and present the world with a happily ever after. Could a simple defeat erase the bodies on the field, the result of head-to-head rendezvous with Death Eaters? Would Voldemort's body bring instant gratification to the survivors of the deceased, those who had strayed into his path of destruction? Was it possible for a simple defeat to give back something all of his friends had lost – their innocence?

No, it was not. Not by a long shot.

But Harry held on to whatever shred of innocence he still had, because deep in him, he knew it wasn't in his nature to kill. That innocence protected him whenever he remembered the burden he'd been cursed with. To know it had to be done, that shred of innocence told him that he'd be protecting so many others if Voldemort was finally defeated.

These days, Harry was finding it harder and harder to hold on to that last shred. His friends were trying to steal it from him.

"Harry, talk to me! I know that you were involved in the Auror fiasco with the Ministry six days back. If you talk to me I can help you," Hermione pleaded, for the third time and counting. Her lip was quivering. "I don't like seeing you all silent, Harry…if you talk to me, I'll listen until you having nothing more to say. I'll listen. Just don't – please don't shut Ron and I out. We're your friends. We want to talk to you."

A spark flickered in his emerald eyes at the mention of the Ministry, but he said nothing.

"Harry!" Hermione cried.

He didn't regret her presence most times. She was one of his reminders that he was still human, that he'd been capable of keeping a decent friendship. It was only these times, when she was sticking her nails below the surface of his skin, snooping…

"Look, mate, I'm not trying to be crude – "

Oh really? Harry thought, irritation starting to burn at his patience.

" – but really, what happened? The Prophet's been hushed up; you know Scrimgeour – he feeds them a whole lot of garbage saying they can't speak until they're "positive of their results." At this rate, everyone's going to forget about it if you don't tell us anything!" Ron said, squatting so that he could look into Harry's eyes. "Come on, mate," he whispered, "Percy died, he died, Harry…and he was a right stupid git in life, but he was still my brother…did you see him at all?"

No response.

"Harry, come on, answer!"

That was really the wrong thing to say.

Harry jumped up, fury and frustration roaring into life with an outburst that sounded dully in his ears, flushing crimson. With a guttural scream of rage, both the table and Lavender Brown's ink bottle exploded, causing splinters, glass, and ink to go flying every which direction.

"You want answers?" he yelled at them, and some dark, malevolent part of him enjoyed the way they melted fearfully before his glare. "Fine, you know what, I'll give you your goddamn bloody answers. Yes I was at the Ministry! Yes I was with the Aurors! Yes I was fighting Death Eaters! Yes I saw Percy die, rushing into battle to protect that bastard Scrimgeour!"

He paused, blazing fury licking away at his self-control, trying with supreme effort not to lose his magic once again. The entire common room was silent, but his glare was scorching, creating a rapid spell of dizziness when one dared look him too long in the eyes.

"And I killed people, did you know that?" he shouted, words now shooting out of him at a blistering pace. "Here you are, so safe in school, who's never seen Voldemort and never really experienced death – did you think I liked it when I was battling a Death Eater and it was either kill or be killed? Did you wonder what it looks like when a man dies? When they're hit with Avada Kedavra, their eyes always go wide at first, did you know that? And then you can practically feel their soul leaving the body, it flows out of them and wraps around you and you're so goddamn bloody cold that you can't even comprehend that you just took someone's life, that you've become a murderer – "

He broke off, apparently lost for words while the memories swirled about his conscious. It was obvious he was trying to calm down. Because so, the uncomfortable tension in the room lessened an iota, and the blazing heat from his eyes faded slightly. But not entirely.

"Is that what you wanted to hear, Hermione, Ron?" he asked them lowly. "Wanted the whole grand repeat of my week, well, you got it."

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry, I had no idea – "

"Well now you do," he said shortly, cutting into her sympathy speech. He knew he'd regret being so callous later, seeing Hermione's eyes fill with tears, but he wouldn't be able to stand being coddled when his very bones were burning in recollection.

"I'm sorry…" Harry said, "I – I can't stay here."

Crunching over the debris, he strode quickly to the portrait hole and let himself out. They could talk whatever they wanted when he was away. He just didn't want to hear it.

"But Draco, our Lord says that Potter must be killed at all costs! He's already growing restless because we remain at school all year, and yet we do nothing! Nothing we do here is of service to our Lord, and Draco…you know how he gets when he isn't pleased."

"Are you saying that I am somehow disobeying our Lord's wishes?" Draco asked Pansy, voice cold and supremely aristocratic. The girl's eyes widened; he knew that she hated to displease or decry him in any manner, and always used it to his best advantage.

"No – no, of course not, Draco, but darling, he's growing so uneasy that Potter still lives. He thinks that it's because of that damnable scar that Potter has something he doesn't. There has to be a reason he's lived this long!"

"Yes, it's called dumb luck and Gryffindor stupidity. I don't believe you've ever sunk so low, Pansy, getting yourself all worked up over Potter, of all people."

"Draco, darling, please don't think that I think about him more than you!" she said, throwing herself on him. "It's just stupid Potter and his scar, I know, but you've been so preoccupied these past few days…I was just wondering if killing Potter would help you any."

"Killing Potter?" His voice had her staring into his eyes. "Killing Potter? Don't you dare speak of killing Potter again, Pansy," he hissed, eyes freezing her where she stood and yanking his arm out of her grasp. "I'll have someone on the job of killing Potter whenever our Lord instructs us on the best course of action – someone who is experienced and won't muck up the job with their immature devotion getting in the way."

There was a pink tinge on his usually alabaster face; Pansy noticed, all too late remembering that any mention of Potter was enough to start the avalanche of emotion from Draco any day. She had chalked it up to the fact that Lucius had, indirectly, been imprisoned for months because of the boy, and so typically avoided talking with Draco on that subject.

"Now if that is all – " Draco began, but was interrupted.

"No, that is not all," Blaise cut in. He'd been lounging on the couch and watching the interaction. He nodded towards Crabbe and Goyle, standing at the forefront of a small posse that included Nott, Bulstrode, and Parkinson herself, who returned to stand amongst the group. Blaise's eyes narrowed as he continued, "Don't blame it all on Parkinson, Malfoy; I put her up to it."

"You did?" Draco repeated, tone icy. "I can't imagine why."

"You've been avoiding this conversation, Malfoy."

"Have you gone mad?"

"You've been distracted for the last week, so uptight…looking over your shoulder more often than you should. And we want to know why."

Draco was trapped into answering, and he knew it. "Well, I don't suppose service to the most powerful Dark Lord in all of history would have anything to do with it?" he asked them sarcastically, though still keeping his composure elegant. "There's no room for error when I'm dealing with him, and especially since I'm currently on a very difficult mission…I'm sorry, but I'm prohibited talking about it with you."

Blaise was still frowning. "You're on a mission? But then why – "

"Look, Zabini, whatever questions you've had, I'm sure I answered them all in one way or another," Draco cut in. "And now, if you don't mind, the air in here is a little stifling. I'm going to take a walk. Don't wait up for me now, dear housemates," he added, a bite of frost in his voice.

Blaise looked as if he were going to say something more, so before he could, Draco grabbed his tailored fox-fur coat from the couch and walked out.

Harry was wandering along the seventh-floor corridor aimlessly, not caring much as the paintings chided him for being out so late – well past curfew, even for a seventh-year. He didn't really care.

Outside, it was snowing gently, blanketing the ground in soft frozen sleet. The peacefulness of the falling snow attracted him; resting his elbows on the window, he leaned out slightly to appreciate the full view of the white wonderland in front of him.

He had absolutely no intention of returning to the Gryffindor common room within the hour. He'd wait until everyone went up to bed. And, as his instinct normally detected sounds from behind him well before intruders were close, Harry thought he was alone.

However, what he didn't know was that there was someone equally good at masking these sounds, and that very person was sauntering up towards Harry with a sudden smirk on his face.

"Out so late, Scarhead?"

Harry didn't even flinch or bother to turn around to fling back the insult. As strange as it was, he was used to being snuck upon by the pale boy. "Go away, Malfoy."

"Oh, I'm wounded. Not even a witty retort this time? Going to take the insult lying down like the dog you are?"

"I'm not in the mood, Malfoy, so pack up your smart mouth and fuck off."

"Well, that's too bad…" he drawled, coming up close behind the Boy Who Lived. Harry could hear his quiet steps, sighing as he realized that, even unwillingly, his body had attuned himself to every step the Slytherin took behind him. Automatic self-defense mechanism.

His breath ghosted over Harry's ear. "Because I am in the mood."

Draco was cold, cold, so cold, but Harry was sick and tired of having to deal with all these raging, conflicting emotions; if it meant he had to step in the cold, by Merlin it was done.

Draco's front was pressed against Harry's back, and he was pushing a little, enough so that Harry was leaning out of the window a little more than was comfortable. Harry recognized this power ploy. "Feel like killing me, Malfoy?"

"I could, if I wanted," the other boy continued, in the same casual tone of conversation that an outsider would find maddening. "Of course, if you wanted me to, that would spoil my fun. I'd never follow any Gryffindor's orders, be they productive or not."

Harry laughed quietly. "So you're not going to kill me?"

"Unfortunately, no, not today." And Draco did, indeed, grab on to the nape of his robes, hauling him back from the window with little apology for putting him there. But moving with the momentum, he turned Harry around and had their bodies pressed close before the other boy had time to even register the move. "So tell me, Golden Boy, what did the delightful Gryffindorks have to say today that made you run out of your common room like Hell was bearing down upon you?"

"It wasn't anything…major. They just…just wanted to know what happened…at the Ministry," Harry said, pausing every time he got lost in Draco's grey eyes, silver now with the moonlight on them. "And I could ask you the same, Malfoy."

"Zabini and Parkinson were being annoying."

"You tell me they always are."

"More so than the usual," Draco said, breath fanning gently over Harry's face; they were so close. Harry suppressed a shiver and the sudden tingle of desire that sped through his blood, right to the tips of his fingers.

Draco leaned closer, and Harry's blood was going wild; he'd leaned to kiss the other boy without really meaning to so soon into their conversation. Fitting with the rest of him, Draco's lips were cold, but still soft, and Harry was so desperate to finally be in control of something in his life that he dominated the kiss, plunging his tongue against Draco's and holding the mouth against his own.

"Aren't we…forceful today," Draco panted slightly, finally drawing back when Harry released his face. His lashes drew down and another small smirk quirked his lip. "Let me guess why…I'm thinking it has something to do with what the goody-goody Gryffindorks wanted…hm, let's see…they wanted to know about the Ministry incident, thus highlighting certain scenes of that event in your memory, and thus – aah – and thus – "

"Draco, shut up," Harry breathed, kissing a path down his cheek to his ear, biting gently on the lobe. Draco shivered minutely under him, filling Harry with such a power high that he never knew, and he flipped them over so that Draco was against the stone wall. Harry's hands slipped around Draco's slender, lithe form, sucking on his neck in a way that Draco had to wrestle back a moan.

In retaliation, he said, "I can't believe you're still so worked up about killing someone, Potter." He sighed pleasurably as Harry began to lick at his lips, tenderly, like a kitten, and then gasped as Harry then shoved him harder against the wall. As they had already been pressed against each other, that was quite a fierce move.

"That's what you get for talking about that," Harry responded, grinning wickedly at the look on Draco's face, a mix of pleasure and pain.

"Well, I've killed loads of men already," Draco said, trying to sound offhand, but the flush on his face gave him away. That and, at such close distance, Harry could see every emotion in his eyes. "I've been run haggard this past week, trying to cover your insecurities from the Dark Lord – and I'm good, Potter, but I'm reaching my limit, and I don't want to start having to trip over my own lies. You should get over it already."

"Oh yeah? And you know what you should get over? That you're a fucking traitor to the Dark. It's not a good thing, to be betraying someone, you know," Harry said, lips brushing Draco's as he spoke. "And besides, I think Tonks is going to start performing murder herself if you keep strutting around Grimmauld Place like a fucking peacock."

"Oh, I never intend to stop. That house'll be mine one day, when you give it to me."

"When I give it to you?" Harry laughed again. "Don't hold your breath. I'd sooner be proprietor of the Malfoy estates before you see the deed to Sirius's house."

"You must be joking. You wouldn't want a half-blood in charge of Malfoy Manor; the paintings themselves would murder you in your sleep."

"Ah, true Slytherins. In the back. How original."

"What can I say? Our motives are as pure as our blood."

Harry gave him no answer to that, just pulled him closer to bond his lips against the other's once again. Draco gave a noise that sounded suspiciously close to a whimper as Harry's hands tangled in blonde hair, pulling him so close that even if Harry pulled Draco right into him it still wouldn't be close enough. The heat was rising – Harry's heat – and it was melting Draco's cold and for once it wasn't smothering him, for once he was in control –

Harry's tongue drew lazy circles in Draco's mouth, breathing hard between strokes. He continued his unrelenting assault, kissing harder, faster, as copious spirals of arousal pooled in his gut, sharp and deep…pressing himself against Draco so that it was hard to tell where each boy began.

He broke off from Draco's mouth and kissed down his neck, and Draco let out a moan he couldn't hold back. In the next moment, however, Harry bit him on the pale curve of his neck, licking the wound and speaking as Draco hissed.

"You're mine, Draco," Harry said quietly, laving the wound with such attentive detail that it wrenched another quiet gasp from him. "You're mine, do you hear that? You're so fucking mine that I'm never going to let you forget it, even when this goddamn war is over." He pulled Draco for another breathtaking kiss, one that sent a shudder down the pale boy's throat and made his knees weak. He'd never quite noticed how…intoxicating…it was when Harry was being so – dominate.

"You're mine…you're mine, Draco," he whispered against his pulse, "You're mine."

And Draco knew he really shouldn't say it, that it was only bound to lead to worse things, for himself in this stupid war, and for Harry, fighting the stupid war, but the words had just escaped his lips –

"…Harry…I'm yours."

And for the two boys so opposite in all things, black to white, push to pull, light to dark, they came together in such an antagonistically crafted piece of sculpture, like a puzzle with pieces that don't quite fit but make the picture regardless. The very idea that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy could have been kissing so desperately was that in itself. The picture was perfect, the subject shaky, but still managing completion.

Harry knew this. Draco was classified in his life under the section labeled "unstable and unsure" – but ironically, out of that, he was the most stable and sure in Harry's life. When they were together, the war was already over, and Voldemort was already in the next world, because Draco's lips and breath and body and soul could chase away Harry's demons, and he clung to him as the last lifeline in the middle of bloody chaos where no one else could help.

So when Harry kissed Draco, it was with so much simmering passion that his mouth trembled, tongue wrapped around the other boy's, and touched him with a reverence usually withheld for deference to gods. His hands slid across Draco's back, down his arms, thumb pressing into elegant palms…knee pressing between the other boy's legs as Draco moaned harshly, flushed, sound echoing down the corridor…

"Hey, Draco…know what?" Harry rasped, tearing his mouth away with difficulty. He had to tell him this, otherwise his dominance would never be justified, not by him.


"…I'm yours too…" he whispered.

And when Draco smiled, a true, genuine smile that shot straight through his heart, Harry admired it for two seconds before melding their mouths once more.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire,
I hold with those who favour fire.
But if it had to perish twice
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

The End