Title: White Light

Author: Princesspepper

Pairing: Harry/Draco

(A/N): This is the first time I ever got a fic idea in Chemistry class… Well, this is the prologue to a story consisting of seven unrelated one-shots. Each one will represent a color that makes up white light—the color of purity and perfection. This is just the prologue so it sort of sets everything up (although, like every other chapter, it is completely unrelated to everything else—although there may be a connected epilogue). It's also shorter and more ambiguous than the others will be. Anyway, I hope you like it!

(Prologue: Black)
Black: Death; mourning; depression; sexuality; lack of color; lack of light; lack of clarity.

White light. Everybody strives towards everything it stands for: a perfect balance of everything; a pureness of heart; a definition. But what many don't realize is that if you pick it apart, it is made up of seven distinct parts. Red is passion and anger; orange is strength and change; yellow is loyalty and happiness; green is jealously and hope; blue is power and clarity; indigo is night and sadness; violet is royalty and love.

And here I am, entrenched in black.

We are alone, myself and him, and neither of us can see a thing, save for the vague outlines of one another's bodies. Neither of us know how we got here or why, but we have both come to accept the fact that we are here, and we're not coming out anytime soon. The vague, almost nonexistent crack in the thick curtains provides the only light that is filtering into the room, caressing our silhouettes and creating fuzzy outlines and suggestions of where things might be.

Being locked in this room is not helping matters, and things continue to look bleak as I sit here on this uncomfortable piece of furniture; I don't even know what it is, but it must be fairly big, as he's sitting beside me with his leg pressed against mine. I can tell from his posture (or what I can see of it) that he is uncomfortable, and I feel the muscles in his leg twitch ever so slightly every once in a while, but I'm super-aware of every move that he makes, because so much is riding on this. We haven't really spoken to each other for days, since the incident, but neither of us seems to want to be the one to bring it up. By some twist of fate, we have managed to wind up here, against both of our wills, and without the wands that we have come to rely on so heavily.

He shifts uncomfortably, and I see his head moving—I think it's in my direction, but I can't be completely sure. "Malfoy?" he whispers, as if he's afraid to break the silence that has become almost sacred.

"What is it, Potter?" I whisper back, too tired to inject the usual venom into my tone, but rather letting my words sink to the floor, just lying there until someone else bothers to pick them up and dust them off.

"I'm sorry about the other day," he answers just as softly, now looking back down at his hands.

I sit there, shocked. I really hadn't expected an apology from him. He had every right to punch me after I had attempted to kiss him; I probably would have done the same if it were him trying it on me after we had gone so many years hating each other, and then forming a tentative friendship that was ready to collapse any day. We just have too many differences between us; it's a fact of life—we push each other's buttons.

"Why are you sorry?" I say, a little louder this time.

He shrugs one shoulder—and I only know this because I could feel it against my own—and answers me. "Shouldn't've hit you."

"Why not? I would have done the same thing," I say truthfully, wringing my hands subconsciously.

"But I didn't mean it," he says, his voice full of despair and confusion. I sense that he hadn't meant to reveal that much, as he tenses after he says it, his shoulders slumping slightly.

"What?"

"Give me another chance," he whispers, as if he wishes I can't hear him. "I swear I'll get it right this time."

I squint at him through the darkness, but I can't make out his facial expression. I decide that the only way to tell if he's serious or not is to do what he says, and give him another chance. I move my hand to find his cheek and cup it softly, feeling the smoothness of his skin and wishing that I could see it for myself. I guide his face closer to mine, and I know I'm moving in the right direction when I feel his hot breath skate across my cheek, giving me gooseflesh. Our lips meet and my heart starts beating faster because it's lasting much longer than it did last time, and I can tell he wants it as badly as I do, and he's hungry for it, and wants to taste me like I want to taste him.

He moans and I could swear that my heart just stopped—if only for a second. If it lasts any longer I'll just die, so I pull away and catch my breath, resting my hands on my knees.

I want to see him. If only someone could turn on a fucking light.

"Look at me, Draco," he says, his voice filled with desperation, and I can tell he's about to break.

I turn my head in his direction, and answer him. "I can't, Harry. I can't see a thing."

(To Be Continued…)

(A/N): Since it's kinda hard to get writer's block on stories that aren't connected, I'll probably be posting these pretty close together, perhaps once a week. I've already got the next one and half of the one after written, but I'm going to wait a while. I need reviews, you know. I won't post ANYTHING else without reviews, and an adequate amount at that (I am a shameless review whore). You have anger and passion to look forward to in the next one, so give me my feedback fix!

XOXO Princesspepper OXOX