A/N: First of all, I'd like to think BIZZIE! YAY! Thanks for the idea/plot/etc. . .and. . .yeah. . .please review, I would really appreciate feedback!

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The cursor flashed on the screen, blinking impatiently, evenly, counting out the seconds as she thought. She replaced her fingers, hit the enter key, and began typing.

There was something calming about being alone. With nothing but a trusty Nimbus 2001 beneath you, hovering hundreds of feet above the ground was strangely comforting. Not that many normal people would agree. But Draco Malfoy was not normal; not by any standards.

As a wizard he was instantly considered strange by muggles, and as a Pureblood he was without doubt in a different class; add in his family, his father, and the man his father served and one could clearly see that Draco Malfoy was far from normal.

The cursor began to blink again, as though daring the girl to continue. After pushing a stray lock of golden-brown hair behind her ear she replaced her fingers on the keys, her right pointer finger smoothing the "j" key as she thought.

From his perch up in the sky, Draco could see far into the distance. To his left the Forbidden Forest stretched, the dark boughs waving slightly ominously in the cold September breezes. Below him, the Hogwarts grounds lay like a strangely green ocean, the tiny blades of grass waving in the brisk breeze. Hogwarts, to his right, rose above the Quiddich Pitch and Herbology Greenhouses, the tall towers impressively looming and blocking out the horizon.

The girl typing paused as though to recreate the scene in her mind and search for new details. After a moment of thought, she continued.

Draco deftly steered the broom, causing it to zoom silently and quickly towards the ground. Just before hitting, he tweaked the handle so that his toes skimmed the tall grass of the field he had been hovering over. His bright blue eyes expertly skimmed the scenery. Despite the beautiful landscape, he looked extremely bored; beauty, wealth – all had become trite to Draco, the boy who had always had everything.

Well, almost everything. What Draco wanted most was

The typing stopped, and with it the soft clicking of the keys. The girl was staring at the last sentence, her eyes tracing the five-lettered name her fingers had just typed. What was it that Draco wanted most? She was going to write "someone to love", but now that seemed foolish, silly, immature. On second thought, she deleted the last line.

As much as Draco Malfoy believed that there was nothing more he could need, he was about to find out just how much he needed the one thing he had never had.

As he circled on his broomstick, his perfect, fair hair catching the cool breeze –

"HEATHER!"

The girl with the brown-blonde hair at the computer sighed and silently cursed her mother. Of course she would interrupt her thoughts once more. The yell was followed by a loud noise like that of stampeding elephants; her mother had just down the stairs.

"Heather, it's past eleven," her mother called over the banister. The girl glanced at the time in the bottom left-hand corner of the computer. It was 11:02 pm. True, after eleven.

"I know, Mom," she replied without glancing from her story. She hadn't even written a page yet. Couldn't her mother have waiting just a few more minutes?

"Shouldn't you be getting to bed? Tomorrow's school."

Heather sighed once more, and saved her document. Her mother, content that her daughter was going to sleep, returned up the flight of stairs, calling over her shoulder, "Don't forget to turn out the lights!"

Heather glanced at her computer; a few clicks and the screen no longer had his name on it, but read, "Shutting down." After a few minutes, Heather had turned out the lights and was walking upstairs to her bedroom, thinking not about school or homework but Draco Malfoy.

---

Across and ocean, back in time about a decade, and in a slightly different world, Draco Malfoy sighed, equally as frustrated. The broomstick he held in his hand would no longer hover; it was just a piece of wood again, a lame prop. He threw it on the ground, disgust on his beautiful face. Cursing, he trudged back up to the castle. From his perspective, the sky, while beautifully blue, seemed too perfect, like a backdrop for a movie or play. The castle, while giving the appearance at first glance of great age, looked fairly new to him. The wooden doors at the front didn't lock; he was able to easily push them open. Like they could even withstand a little rain, let alone a siege.

Once inside he walked to the Great Hall. The long wooden tables were empty but for a few students and teachers; Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Professor McGonagall sat at the teachers' table; Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Ginny Weasley were seated at the Gryffindor table. The rest of the tables were empty. It looked ridiculous; with Draco, there were only five students in the massive hall. The tables were completely bare except for a single boul of soup that someone had managed to make.

"Hey," called Harry.

"Hey," Draco responded, his tone just as bored.

"What's this one about?" asked the Gryffindor.

"No idea," replied Draco, walking over to the Gryffindor table to serve himself a boul of soup. Why did he even need to eat? He certainly wasn't hungry. But he supposed it had become habit, like breathing and sleeping.

"What do you think the pairings will be?" that was Hermione. Draco shrugged, mouth full of soup. If only those stupid fanfiction writers could see them then; nothing peculiar, no magical, no drama. Maybe then they wouldn't be caught in the strange limbo as they had been since that Rowling woman had written that book in the 1990s. Had it really be ten years? Draco had lost count. For ten years he had been stuck in adolescence. There was going to be hell to pay once he figured his way out.

"I bet she'll use some other character," Draco replied grouchily. He hated those new characters. What Mary-Sous they were, flouncing into Hogwarts five, six, seven years late. And they were much more transparent, much more fake. He was surprised that anyone could read those stories and believe that people like Mirielle de Poesy were actually real people. The thought made him laugh. As though girls like that actually existed!

"Nah," replied Hermione, "I'm sure that won't happen. Maybe we'll be a couple." Draco glanced at Hermione. She, too, had become strangely empty and dull; her character had undergone so many changes from Rowling's work to the slash fanfiction to those sappy stories written by teenage girls. Draco knew what it was like. He had, over the years, been a troubled teen, an evil Death Eater, a medieval knight, a polygamous husband, a hero, a villain. . .a ferret. . . When was it going to end? – And, worse than that, he had met Darth Vader and Frodo Baggins and Peter Parker. He had kissed Hermione, had an affair with Ron, dated Harry. . .each fanfic had come to blur, but, worse than that, they had overlapped; in the morning he was dark and disturbed, when he'd meet Harry in dark corners. . .that evening he was marrying Hermione, happy. . .all the actions and feelings forced upon him by those many authors toying with his reality had removed all his sense of time, emotion, and life; he had come to see life as empty.

"I'm not hungry." He pushed the bowl away. He got up and left the table, muttering angrily, "Boy who had everything my ass."

---

Heather spent that at school day walking through the halls trying to think of the perfect girl for Draco Malfoy. She wished so much that it would be her. But it couldn't; she slouched when she sat in French class, she washed her hands obsessively, she could never remember her locker combination. . .

In her eyes, her flaws consumed her character, and her skills became problems; her interest in art would be unattractive to a boy like Draco Malfoy – he wouldn't want a girl who was interested in sketching, who could stare out at Long Island Sound for hours. Her good grades in school would be brushed off as nerdiness. Her hair was to curly, or not curly enough; she chewed loudly; her feet were too big.

As a girl who spent her time designing Mary-Sous and dreaming about Draco Malfoy, Heather was too quick to judge herself, seeing her own life with an artist's eye, one that judged harshly and critiqued her own every movement. Raising her hand in math class was too forward; when she spoke it was too loud, or too quiet. Sitting here at lunch was too audacious, while offering to read her essay in English class was being a show-off, and her writing wasn't that good anyway. . .

Her insecurities made her the quiet girl, while although she saw herself as a nerd or an artist, the others didn't see her at all; a few nice girls had befriended her, but they didn't understand her when her gray eyes went cloudy as she stared out the window; they couldn't understand why she stopped on the way to the cafeteria to stare out the window at a certain flower. How could they? Heather never spoke to them.

And, on the off chance a boy did speak to her, she would stare like a frightened deer, causing the speaker to guffaw and laugh with his friends. If she did get a chance to respond, her voice was so frail and quiet that he often couldn't hear.

Such was her day-to-day life that had her dreading school and wishing for weekends, when she could unfold her dad's old laptop and sit in her room, putting her dreams of Draco Malfoy into letters and symbols that remained for her to read over.

There was one thing about school she did like – it was seeing him. Like Draco Malfoy, he was rich. He could do layups while palming a basketball, scored about half of the touch-downs in during his Junior year while starting on the school's football team, and his brown-auburn hair was straight and fell into his eyes just as Draco's did. His eyes were brown, not piercing blue, but he stood about as tall as Draco, and walked with the same over-accentuated swagger.

She knew how to describe Draco – it was just him, Louis Christianson. The name made her look around, as though someone could read her thoughts. Thinking his name seemed scandolous, as though she sullied it by thinking it with her mind. But what about the girl? His girl? The girl that was to be his girlfriend?

Thinking that she felt her attention wander. How much she wished that someone could use those words to describe her: Oh, Heather Westerton. She's his girl. The thought made her want to smile and cry at the same time; it was such hope, such desperate hope, while, at the same time, such desperate despair. If only her life was planned, pre-destined so that someone else was manipulating her puppet-strings so that she knew she'd end up with Prince Charming. If only she lived in a fanfic.