Author's Note: This is another stylistic experiment, and very different from what I normally write. It started off as an experiment with avoiding clichés, but it evolved to become rather dark. It's also drabble-ish and plotless. Still, I rather like it. Harry/Draco, if you tilt your head to the left and squint a bit.
Harry couldn't deny it.
He'd tried to, of course. I'm keeping an eye on him. Stopping him from hurting someone else. Trying to find out why McGonagall let him come back. But eventually, it couldn't be denied.
I'm fascinated by him.
Harry remembered seeing a first year, thrown against a wall in the attack last year. Her leg was broken, the bone sticking out, white against her tan skin. The colour had made him feel ill, then. Now, it was… captivating.
Skin as white as bone.
He bit his lip, hard, hands clutching at the table as he looked across the hall at him. A familiar coppery taste filled his mouth. The taste of fear, and pain, and loss. The taste of vibrant red, like the writing on the wall in second year; like the blood of the fallen, seeping into Hogwarts' stones. He would taste like that, Harry thought. The idea seemed strangely alluring.
Lips as red as blood.
His pale hair fell in his eyes, soft and light. Harry had nightmares about hair, sometimes. Drowning in a sea of bloody locks while Voldemort laughed, and laughed, and laughed. His hair would be different, Harry was sure. So soft, like drowning in the touch of a ghost. Somehow, that seemed less scary than the thicker, heavier hair of his dreams.
Hair as soft as a dying gasp.
The subject of his study turned towards him, and Harry dropped his head down to his plate; avoiding the piercing eyes. Once, he would have met that gaze with defiance, but those eyes were sharper now. They could cut, where once they had only grazed. The sharpness was enthralling. He couldn't afford not to resist.
Eyes like cold steel on a battle's night.
He peered upwards, surreptitiously, secretly. Sunlight shone on him, dancing across pale skin and locks; but seemed not to quite touch him. Harry wondered if anything could touch him, anymore. He seemed… empty. Hollow. Inviting.
Smile like the knife of a friend.
He was untouchable and tempting. Gripping and repulsing. Dangerous and fascinating. His blood lips moved, words forming. 'Don't deny.' Harry could feel himself being drawn in, and he wasn't sure he wanted to refuse.
Tongue sharp like a razor.
Eyes met. Feuds collapsed. Bonds formed. Hero complexes made for an interesting life.