Apparently based on a 100 themes challenge, leached off of the brilliant and ever wonderful biohazardchild on (Pssst, so read her awesome stuff now!). So this is dedicated to her, whom I love and adore.

Theme; Tired.
Pairing; DracoxHarry -- very light. You may have to squint for it.

Tired. He was tired.

Pansy had rested her eyes on him a millisecond longer than every other day, and the more perceptive of the Slytherin table (Draco was infinitely smug - because truly, Malfoys were not suited for the term happy - that so many of his own House could be so easily duped by him) wrote it off to an increased degree of lust. He didn't blame them. After all, who wouldn't fall to their knees, frothing at the mouth for the chance of even exchanging air particles with him? His perfect waterfall of hair looked like liquid moonlight, strands fine and gleaming as if there was nothing more soft and inviting to be found in the whole world. Draco was inclined to understand why his peers might brush off such a telling gesture; it certainly didn't hurt that he had strikingly awe inspiring looks or wealth and power and fame... But that was besides the point, however true it might be. Even Pansy could tell that he was tired.

This, of course, only meant that his hair was a shade less brilliant (perhaps a bright star in the sky instead of the normally luminous supernova) and his movements more languid and leisurely than sharp. Malfoys would never let lack of sleep become an excuse for poor attire - they did not need sleep to supplement their wonderfully amazing looks.

Unlike Potter. Scarface was another issue entirely; the whole bloody school knew instantly when something was up the moment he walked into the Hall with Weasel and Bookworm trailing behind him. Nasty dark rings under his sparkling forest green eyes, knuckles whitened with stress and poor blood circulation... Oh yes, Potter had the "Dark, tall, and brooding" down to an art form, though the blond suspected he could do better if he wanted. The Gryffindor Seeker had, annoyingly, started growing the same time he had, matching him inch for inch (and since he now shared heights with Potter, he couldn't very well call the scrawny do-gooder short; even the Bookworm was smart enough to pick up on that setup).

Draco speared a strawberry and ate it without much relish as he watched Insomniac Boy-Who-Would-Die-Of-No-Sleep push eggs and waffles around his plate with a smite less disinterest than himself. He wondered briefly why the Golden Trio seemed to be so utterly absorbed in themselves today, why even Weasel and the Bookworm seemed as tired, but as cheerful as Potter, who watched them bicker with a sparkle in his very green eyes.

It bothered him.

It should not have.

And when the Boy-Who-Would-Die-Of-No-Sleep looked up from the repulsive red and gold breakfast table, Draco did his best not to meet those eyes.

It was the sparkle in them that did him in. The bright, laughing verdant eyes watching from behind old lenses left over from a cupboard and a mundane life. He shook his head, the hiss of Malfoy hair over imported silk grounding him, rooting him.

Draco was just tired.