A/N: And voila, my first venture into the snarky realms of Draco/Harry romance. This chapter is the first (and shortest) of three, so look out for more.
"Like what you see, Narcissus?"
Draco's neck whipped about so fast that he wasn't quite able to erase all traces of panic from his expression before meeting Potter's eyes. He could just feel that damnable flush crawling up his neck and poisoning his cheeks with red. If there had been anyone left to beg, Draco would have taken a moment to grovel wholeheartedly.
Please, let some small scrap of his dignity be preserved.
"Is that supposed to be a slur on my mother, Potter?" he snarled, struggling against a strengthening maelstrom of panic. Pick a fight, get Potter out of there – anything, but quickly, before he noticed…
Potter had the nerve to look taken aback. Gryffindor's prize git appeared to rerun his last words through his head. Something of a smile twisted his lips as realisation apparently struck. Stupid nonce.
"No, actually. I'm just concerned about this sudden outbreak of vanity."
Pulse thrumming hotly in his fingertips, Draco slowly turned back and tried to meet his own eyes in the mirror. It seemed Potter couldn't see what Draco was seeing reflected before him. Thank Merlin for small mercies. He was saved for now.
As panic slowly receded, Draco settled back on his haunches with a very practiced semblance of ease. He glared towards the reflection and felt a bit sick. He thought. Quickly.
"What's it to you, Potter? Not the first time you've stumbled upon me with a mirror."
Draco couldn't help it; he felt his flush deepen. His skin crawled with the vivid memory of his humiliation. Shivers of repulsion helped to sharpen his focus; Potter would never again be privy to the sight of Draco Malfoy in tears. He bit out the last with added venom: "I thought we'd had done with all this in sixth year, to be honest."
Mentioning the sixth year fiasco: genius stroke. Feed the guilt, send Potter scurrying, and then try out some of those rather interesting tricks favoured by the ancient Samurai wizards he'd read about during the endless summer. Flawless plan, really.
"I think you've got something there, Malfoy."
Surely not.
"What?" Draco managed. He almost sounded calm, too. Impressive.
Potter's voice sounded somehow closer, though Draco was sure he'd have heard any approaching footsteps. He refused to turn around. This entire scenario was too ridiculously painful to be reality, and hence had to be a nightmare. If Draco shut his eyes and screamed loudly, perhaps this would all would fizzle out like the old ferret dreams. He drew a deep breath and snapped his eyelids shut, but Potter spoke first. Typical.
"Well, after all's said and done, I think it's about time we moved past that business."
"Business!" Draco half-burbled, jaw staggering down and collapsing about his knees. He kept his eyes shut. "You almost killed – the scars–"
"I mean," continued Potter, seemingly oblivious to the structural collapse of Draco's mental world, in which Harry Potter preened upon a podium of morals and integrity, "you did provoke me. With the threat of torture, and all."
Draco Malfoy was absolutely not impressed by this inherently Slytherin style of reasoning. Potter may have been the saviour of the wizarding world, but he was not allowed to suddenly champion logic at this late point in their respective careers.
He wondered vaguely whether Potter's tune would change if Draco removed his shirt and displayed the lingering physical evidence of that bathroom affair. Then he remembered the mirror, and he refused to wonder any longer. The nausea was returning.
"Yes, well, let's just forget it, then," said Draco shortly, attempting to inject a healthy dose of sarcasm into his words, and somehow failing. "I don't much care, anyway. Permanent scarring seems to follow you about, so I'm not surprised that my scars don't bother you."
It wasn't worth it. If Potter was hanging out for bloody redemption through reverse psychology (truly an inspiring check-mate in the Slytherin game of chess), then Draco wasn't about to do him the favour.
Surprisingly enough, Potter did seem a bit disconcerted by this information. Draco was glad. Maybe belated guilt would keep the prick awake for a couple of nights. It'd serve him right.
"What the hell are you doing here anyway, Potter?" Draco spat, opening his eyes in order to glare, and he honestly wanted an answer. Either this was the Moste Evil (and Convoluted) work of some gleefully sadistic Karma fairy, or Potter really had regressed to his stalkerly habits of school years past.
Potter flushed; a crimson tide rose deliciously in his cheeks, and Draco's hopes soared like snitches. Voyeurs are always preferable to divine justice: article 678 of the Malfoy creed.
"You've been following me about, haven't you?" Draco said, possibly failing to conceal all of his relief (not that Potter seemed to notice). His back stiffened as he considered the short range of reasons for Potter's surveillance. Surely the bespectacled git didn't think Draco was still under the employ of the Dark Side?
He'd been cleared at trial, hadn't he? As the son of a principle Death Eater, with witness accounts of his involvement in torture, and, most damnably, with irrefutable evidence tattooed upon his left arm, Draco had been guilty until proven innocent.
Proving his innocence had required both Veritaserum and Potter's favourable testimony. Draco had tried valiantly to forget Potter's hand in the outcome of his trial, but never quite succeeded. When he'd come back to school, Draco had been determined to avoid the sanctimonious bugger at all costs, mostly in order to avoid having to thank him. Draco owed Potter. It killed him.
It seemed that Potter hadn't received the message. What in Merlin's name did Potter the People's Hero still want with him? Surely he wouldn't have helped Draco avoid Azkaban if he'd secretly suspected him of ongoing dastardly behaviour.
Draco almost snorted. The dastardliest thing he'd done recently was breaking into the school kitchens. He hadn't even terrorised the house elves; he just didn't have the taste for it these days. Taking meals in the Great Hall was simply not an option for the only known ex-Death Eater to return to Hogwarts. Draco himself didn't really know why he'd bothered coming back, honestly. It wasn't like a decent education would help him find a job in any Western wizarding country.
Finally, Potter deigned to answer. Maybe it had taken him that long to think of a viable excuse. Draco was almost intrigued. It was much too late, of course; Potter's embarrassed silence had already confirmed Draco's suspicions.
"Don't be an idiot, Malfoy. Why would I follow you?"
"So I keep asking myself," Draco muttered, pulling at loose threads in the carpet of the disused classroom that had inexplicably housed this wretched mirror. "Is it the hair? The intellectual conversation? Good old-fashioned voyeurism?"
"I couldn't sleep, and I noticed this door was ajar, you bloody narcissist," snapped Potter, and made little scuffling noises which might have accompanied some sort of scrabbling to his feet. Draco wondered how long he'd been sitting on the carpet. What was this, some sort of girly heart-to-heart?
"Again with the careless slights on my mother, Potter," he said, deliberately directing his gaze at a safe mid-point between his unwanted companion and the mirror's reflection.
"You're so full of yourself, Malfoy," Potter replied, and his voice seemed to be coming from the approximate location of the doorway. "Keep drowning in your own reflection all night, I don't care – but maybe try some introspection sometime. Look a bit deeper than that bloody mirror."
Draco's head snapped about again, and his neck twinged tetchily, but Potter had gone. Was it possible he'd known something about this mirror?
This had to be a nightmare. No other feasible options.
Draco buried his face in his hands and imagined the absolute bliss of being blind.