Disclaimer: The delectable bodies of Harry and Draco and everything else sadly do not belong to me.
Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I didn't expect that many, so thanks!
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Mother still requires frequent letters just like my Father used to detailing in my latest test results, my progress in all classes, updates in the Quidditch season and how Slytherin are doing in the House Cup. She still likes to know what the Golden Trio are up to, along with Dumbledore and the other Professors. As much as I love her it is rather pathetic to be wallowing in denial. Father is in Azkaban and his Master is dead. Although the dead part is debatable. But I know I can't be to hard on her, I know how hard it is to try and step off a path you've been walking your whole life. It's almost impossible. I can understand what she must be going through and I'm an obedient Son so letters are sent every couple of weeks. However, I never go into detail. I make my letters as vague and ambiguous as possible, because I have a sneaking suspicion that these letters are probably all kept for the time when he will escape, and he will escape, it's just a matter of time. And I know he hasn't lost his mind like many of the other prisoners. I would never give him the full story. Not like I gave it to a certain green-eyed Gryffindor.
Saturday morning and I rise early, as I usually do. This is not necessarily my choice. I've always been an early riser but that's because most mornings I wake up covered in sweat, the scenes of a nightmare playing across my consciousness. It's not all bad though. This time of the morning is peaceful and quiet. When I leave the Common Room at this time I rarely see another student or Professor. There is the occasional ghost floating through the Castle. But it's a rarity to actually see someone.
After trying desperately to erase the images of my sleep from my mind I dress and head straight to the Owlery. I step into the large round room, feeling the cool wind whipping against my face and as I cast my eyes around my heart nearly jumps into my mouth. It's not just the surprise of actually seeing someone, but seeing exactly who that someone is.
He is sitting in the pane of a glass-less window. A black mop of hair his only distinctive feature visible. His legs are pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped firmly around his ankles and his forehead resting against his knees.
I have the sudden urge to touch him. To feel his soft skin beneath my fingers. He looks oddly small huddled in the window pane. It's a stark contrast to the towering figure he takes on when playing Quidditch or when in a duel. He seems to have an aura of power about him when he has his wand drawn, when he gets that certain glint in those amazing green eyes. I feel a shudder course through me and I realise I've been watching him for much longer than I should have been. His face is still hidden which means he is unaware of my presence. I crush the urge to walk directly to him and take him in my arms and drag my eyes away from him to rake over the sleeping owls above me. My black eagle owl never takes long to find and I move as silently as possible towards her. I'm praying that she will notice me before I have to call for her because I really don't want to disturb him.
However, I do desperately want to know what has brought him to the Owlery at this time of the morning and why he's huddled against a window, the wind whipping at his body. I'm positive that he too must suffer from nightmares, after all he's seen and experienced it's not surprising. But I can't ask him. I won't. I've only had one encounter with him since he received my letter. When he showed me he didn't hate me. But I don't know if he wants to talk to me. I have no idea what he thinks about the letter or me. I have no idea if he wants to change the relationship between us. I know he doesn't hate me, but thats all I know. No words have passed between us. I haven't even slung my usual insults at him. Instead Weasel and Granger are coping it all. I can't very well give up insulting them all together. People would definitely notice, and frankly I don't think I really want to give up insulting them. He was confused at first as to why I kept insulting his friends, but I think he figured out why.
The swooping sound of an owl returning from it's nightly hunting brings me out of my reverie. I see the wide, hazel eyes of my owl blinking down at me and I hold out my arm in a silent signal that I have a letter in need of delivering. She swoops down and latches onto my arm. She glistens as she moves, the light streaming in from the windows catching in her beautiful plumage. I lift my hand to stroke her, feeling the soft black feathers beneath my fingers, wishing it were something else. She moves up onto my shoulder to allow me to tie my letter to her leg. "You know who it's for. Give her a kiss for me." I whisper before she launches into the air and out of the window.
I turn back to the occupied window, hoping to get a last look before I leave but find a pair of emerald eyes watching me intently. I think he is the only one with the ability to fluster me, to cause me to forget everything. When I find myself gazing into his eyes it's like I have been temporarily stupefied. I can't move, or speak and I'm thoroughly surprised my heart continues to work. But it's never long before I pull myself together. Years of being trained to be a 'Malfoy' does have it's perks. My emotionless expression that I have practiced in the mirror returns and I watch him with seeming disinterest. Even though he knows exactly how I feel I still can't help sliding my facade into place. Force of habit I guess.
Feeling like I'm intruding on his space I turn to leave. I have my back to him and have taken my first step when he finally speaks.
"Why?"
His soft yet firm voice echoes around the room, bouncing off the walls. It's one word and yet the answer is so incredibly complicated I can't even begin to fathom where to start. I don't turn around, my eyes are fixed in front of me, trying to find the words. Before I have time to decide on what to say, there were clearly to many things to say his voice halts my thoughts.
"Did you write it?" His voice is filled with curiosity but his simple question angers me.
"Of course I bloody wrote it." I snap at him, my back still to him.
"I knew you did." He said defensively. "It was too sincere to be fiction. But I just had to make sure." I don't know what to say to this pronouncement, so I say nothing.
The silence isn't an uncomfortable one but I still have my back to him, not having worked up enough of whatever it is I need to turn and face him. The wall in the Owlery is not at all interesting but after about a minute of staring I can no longer see it. All I can see is him. Trying to imagine exactly what he would look like right now but I cannot for the life of me come up with a definite picture. I feel his scrutinizing gaze on my back and I'm almost dying of curiosity to know what he looks like. To know what expression he is wearing. What kind of body language he is giving off. But most of all I want to know what he's thinking. My eyes seem to re-focus again and the wall comes back into view. I shove the thoughts of asking Snape if there really is a Potion that enables one to read another's mind out of my stream of consciousness and am realising quickly that I can't stand here all day staring at a stone wall.
Before I have a chance for further thoughts on the matter his voice once again pulls me out of my reverie.
"Why?"
That same annoying question. It really is a bit too vague for my liking. He could be asking about anything. Why did you send me that letter now? Why not years ago? Why won't you look at me? Why do you live a life you despise with every fiber of your being? Why does the Owlery smell so bad? Actually, wait, he would already know that answer, the evidence was all over the floor.
"Why what?" My voice is cold, I can't help it. It wasn't suppose to be a question filled with such venom but I guess I can't stop who I've become. I spin around to face him, my arms folded defiantly across my chest. His face is unreadable but his eyes flicker with my abrupt and rather rude question. I knew as soon as I laid eyes on him that I was probably better off facing the wall. His eyes have always been my downfall. I feel my whole body soften, even my mind, as he watches me, contemplating his answer.
"I would never have guessed any of the truths you spoke of in your letter and yet they all appear to be self evident." He stopped, running a hand through his hair. That hair. His raven locks that are so soft, so tempting. My eyes linger where his hand has just been until he catches my gaze. His cheeks flush ever so slightly because he has probably guessed exactly what I was thinking. Damn! This was so much easier when he had no idea what was going on in my mind. It was easier to hide myself from him. But do I really want to hide from him? That was not a question I was prepared to answer just yet.
"When did you write it?" Out of all the questions he could ask he goes for the one with the easiest answer. Good work Potter.
"Months ago."
"Why did you send it the other night?" My eyes flicker to the floor. I still have no idea why I deemed the other night appropriate.
"I really don't know. Maybe I was delirious or something because I'd never had the urge to actually send it to you before." My eyes remain on the stone floor. My voice didn't hold the coldness it had before.
"I'm glad you did."
My eyes snap up to meet his. I can't believe it. He's actually happy about reading the letter. He's glad that he knows everything it contained. I thought he may resent me for dumping it all on him. I would certainly be out for blood if my enemy decided one day to tell me their painful life story. But I suppose that was me. And Potter was Potter. We were very similar and yet so very different at the same time.
"Why did you write it?"
That was the big question. The one that would probably take me a lifetime to understand and another to explain it. I let a sigh escape me and cast my eyes over the one bombarding me with the questions. He had a right to ask them of course. I had been expecting it. I just didn't know when and I certainly didn't expect them to come so soon. He was still huddled against the window, with his legs pressed against his chest, but his arms were now resting on his knees and he had turned to face me.
"I guess after I realised and accepted what was going on inside me I just had to get it out. It felt better to see it written down. It was like I wasn't just telling you, I was finally telling myself. Making it real." I had unconsciously moved closer to him and was now a few feet away. He was still watching me, I could feel it and it was this feeling, those eyes that caused me to begin my tirade, but I didn't look up at him. I couldn't and hadn't since I began talking. "But I think what really made me put quill to parchment was that I finally realised that I wanted you to understand me more than anything else I've ever wanted in my whole life."
I wasn't telling him everything. I couldn't openly admit to his face everything I had revealed in that letter. Sure I wanted understanding. But there was that desire deep down inside of me that wanted so much more. Was he willing to give it to me? Could he ever give it to me? Part of me felt that I might never know.
When I finally built up the courage to look at him his face was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. His full red lips and slightly flushed cheeks are more than adorable. He was right in front of me. Watching me. Gazing up at me with those mesmerizing eyes. I feel as if I'm drowning in his green depths and I know right then and there he could never hate me again.
This epiphany startles me into silence. I can't drag my eyes away from him. The emotions filling his eyes right now were making my heart soar. I know it shouldn't and it is embarrassing and I'm more than ashamed but it's well and truly out of my control. I take a few steps closer to him, closing the gap between us and it takes all of my resolution plus a little bit more not reach out and touch him. Instead I move swiftly passed him and sit opposite him in the window. His eyes remain on me the whole time as I turn to take in the view. The Hogwarts grounds really do look nice from this height and at this time of the morning. The sun peeping out from behind the cloud-filled sky, shining down on the rippled surface of the lake. But all that occupies my mind is him.
I turn back to him, raking my eyes over his whole body. He shifts uncomfortably under my gaze. He looks uneasy but is trying desperately to hide it. A flicker of a smirk crosses my lips before I realise why he is feeling uneasy. My proximity to him is more than close and his mind is probably filtering over the words in my letter. My confession that I'm scared to be close to him in fear of what I might do. I turn abruptly from him, my eyes finding the sky once more.
"It's ok." I say as casually as I can. "I'm won't maul you or anything." This time the smirk that creeps onto my lips is unstoppable. "Self control. You must know I have a lot of it by now."
"Yeah." He assures, a little too quickly. "It's just a bit odd. I'm still trying to understand why, how... just... everything. It's confusing. It's hard to comprehend it all. No matter how many times I read your letter I still find it hard to believe you actually wrote it. You actually feel all of that..." He trailed off sounding extremely nervous.
I know this is not suppose to offend me but it does and I can't help the anger that flares up inside of me. I look at him, my eyes boring into him, my stone cold gaze returning.
"Of course I feel. I feel everything as I told you so in that letter. I deserve to feel just as much as the next person and if you find it that hard to believe then I was stupid to ever think you might be capable of understanding me."
I stand abruptly, to angry to remain seated. I turn away from him and begin to march across the room. But before I have even taken two steps I feel a warm hand clamp onto my wrist.
He spins me around so I'm facing him again. But I'm not looking into his eyes, I'm looking down at his skin on mine. Feeling his heat radiating into me. It almost has a dizzying affect on me and I have to close my eyes to regain my composure. I finally open them again and am met, once again, by those emerald eyes.
His glasses have disappeared from his face so there is no longer a barrier between me and the raw emotions coursing through his eyes. I feel instantly guilty for yelling at him. For questioning him. For knowingly taking what he said out of context. But for some reason I need more than to just see it. To see what he feels in those eyes. It's hard to discern exactly what his feelings are. I need to hear it. I need to hear the words pass over his lips.
As if reading my mind, which makes me really wonder if he perhaps has gotten hold of that mind reading potion, he pulls me closer so I'm just a few inches from his face. I can feel his breath on my skin and I'm more than appreciative that he is holding one of my arms down because I don't think I could control both of them to not reach out and touch him when he is this close.
"I want to understand. I need to understand. You think I don't feel guilty for never noticing how you felt before? For never noticing every time you tried to show me? You think you can just tell me all of those things and think I won't care about any of it? It's all I've been able to think about for the past few days and it's driving me insane. You probably do know me better than anyone else and that fact alone has been eating away at me constantly. I could probably recite that letter word for word I've read it so many times and there is still so much I don't understand. So much I want to understand. Need to understand."
As if only just realising he had spilled his thoughts all over the room he snapped his mouth shut. He swallows hard, his eyes locked with mine. I'm too shocked to say anything. To caught up in what he's just said. He has succeeded once again in sending me into a stupor. He gives me one last searching look that causes my breath to catch in my throat before releasing my hand, pushing passed me and out the door.