Dreams awoke him every night. Horrible dreams. Dreams of death, of loss, of grief. Dreams he could not ignore, though he tried with the entirety of his heart. He would clamp his eyes shut, tightly, until small splotches of color flashed in front of his dilated pupils. He would sit up and open his eyes. His nerves could feel the painstakingly slow slide of every droplet of sweat that slid down his pale, slender back. He felt his shoulder blades quiver with undiluted anxiety; but for what, he knew not. He would consciously flick his tongue out and attempt to moisten his dry, bruised lips. How many nights had he bitten them? How many nights had he woken himself with the pain of flesh being forced open? More than he could ever hope to count. Not that he hoped much anymore these days.

He would swing his slender legs over the side of the bed and pace to the window, only to stare across the vast grounds of the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He could barely see the flash of silver-white as a herd of unicorns moved quickly through the forest. Without the aid of his glasses, they seemed like nothing more than small bursts of white light, like a flickering street-lamp in the distance. He sighed and turned away, reaching for his robe and tucking himself into it. It barely warmed him, but it was just enough to take the edge off of the cold.

He glanced over to see Ron sleeping soundly, awash in dreams of Hermione, Harry was sure. They couldn't keep their paws off each other lately, and everyone had taken notice. They loved each other. Harry was jealous. It must be nice to have someone there, unconditionally. Someone to never let you down. Someone to love you, despite your past. He envied them with his whole being. And yet, he'd never loved anyone more.

He moved out of the room, gracefully, as though his heart wasn't as heavy as led. He would flutter down the winding staircase, keeping a watchful eye on the portraits, should they wake and report him for being out after-hours. The much-friendlier ghosts greeted him silently and glided past, not minding his presence. He would ever be thankful for them. They were his guardians. He would trot across the marble floors, his bare feet making a gentle 'slap-slap-slap' as he ran, the only noise within the empty corridors.

He would bank right and enter the grounds, the grass cold and lush against his skin. The August air was blissfully cool against his dampened skin. The scent of the forest would find him, and so would his lover.

Draco Malfoy stepped defiantly out from behind a tree, his presence threatening to ruin all things calm in the world. Harry had often wondered if that attribute was what brought him back, time and time again. Draco was so dark, so cunning. He was more sly than the slyest of foxes, and more dangerous than any woodland creature Harry could fathom. Every inch of Malfoy breathed menace, and Harry could not drag himself away. They would move toward each other at a deliberate pace, but for so very different reasons. Harry was fighting the fear and anticipation that was hurdling through his veins, making his stance rigid and stocky. Malfoy, on the other hand. Malfoy's gate was that of a slow, deliberate predator. A natural born killer. He had been born and bred to hate all that was different, and Harry James Potter was nothing near and exception. Not now. Not ever.

But that reason, that simple reason, was what brought the fair-haired wizard back to this spot, every night. He knew Harry's power, possibly better than Harry knew himself. Draco knew that in a showdown, a showdown that would inevitably come, neither of them would have an advantage. They were equally powerful, on the battlefield, and on their love-bed.

Their bodies met with such a force, they held on to each other to avoid some sort of ricochet. Draco tangled his lean fingers in Potter's hair, pulling the slightly-taller boy closer, pushing their lips harshly together. Harry fought back, wanting to resist. He pulled away, shoved against Malfoy's toned body, almost crying out with rage. And yet Malfoy would pull him back, re-direct him back into his arms, kissing him again, feeling Harry whimper against his lips.

Memories and pain would rise within Harry, making him angry. Making him vulnerable. Draco would pull him to the ground, throw him on his back and climb atop him, kissing his lips, biting his tongue until he could taste the blood of the Famous One lacing his lips, his tongue, his teeth. It was amazing to both of them how well they fit together. Every angle, every plane of their bodies molded together. Even their hips, their bones, their softly-defined male curves fit together like broken, misused puzzle pieces. Their edges were frayed and torn, and yet they fit. Somehow.

The always ended the same. Draco would rise, dress quickly, and with a quick, simple kiss planted on Harry's chin, he would leave. Without a single word. He would leave Harry sitting in the grass that once comforted him, naked, for God and all his creations to see. To judge. And Harry would be left feeling even more empty than he'd began. He would stare at the sky and wonder of his mother and father, if they could see him, and how disappointed they would be if they could see him. The wonder child, the prodigal son being used and abused by his well-known enemy. The thought almost brought him to tears.

He got up and collected his robe around him, still staring at the sky. His flesh was highlighted by the light of the solid, full moon. It was as if he was himself carved from marble. The shadows hugged the lines of his muscles and glided across his sturdy frame as he moved. Little did he know, his every twitch, every breath was being watched.

From behind the same tree from which he had appeared, Draco Malfoy watched silently. His dominant nature told him that what he was seeing was his. He claimed the creature in the moonlight. But he knew, in the marrow that thrived in his bones, that this creature was not his. That it could not be claimed by any earthly being. He knew The Child Who Lived had much greater intentions than to be with another simple wizard. The magical being before him was intended to save the world from He Who Must Not Be Named. The very dark power that Malfoy himself was aligned with. A spark of guilt almost flanked within him, but he buried it. Knew that he himself was also intended for a much higher purpose than to love and be loved by his enemy,

He forced himself to turn away and not look back. As he stepped away, he knowingly snapped a withered branch off the tree.

Harry spun, but saw nothing. He wondered, but did not know.

How ironic. The inquiry of his lover was the same as that of his life itself.

How very, truly ironic.