"Dr-Draco…" Harry whispers.
The Slytherin's skin is luminescent, like the moonlight streaming through the window. Draco looks down at him with wide, grey eyes, glowing oddly, almost silver.
The distant iciness usually in those luminous eyes is absent tonight. It is replaced with empty longing, raw emotions, with need and want.
The bed hangings surrounding them are red. Draco's hair, not quite white in the light, is rumpled, his beautiful skin shining with perspiration.
Harry curves a hand into his pale neck and pulls him into a kiss. He smells like sweat and cinnamon and something that Harry can't quite place. The weight on his chest is familiar, comforting, almost.
Draco's tongue nudges against his lips and he opens them, wanting and waiting for more.
"I have to go," Draco whispers, tearing away.
"Stay," Harry begs him, but Draco is already fading into the night, his pale skin melting into darkness.
"You know I must," he whispers.
Harry reaches out a hand to touch him, but his fingers close on thin air. It was a dream. It was always a dream, a falsely perfect reality in which all was everything, anything and nothing all at once. But even illusions have to end.
He wakes up alone, panting; hating himself for believing it was real.