A/N: For some obscure reason, I seem unable to write anything but angst right now. My fluffy muse is, according to the postcards, doing a world-wide gay bar trawl, and refuses to come home. So, expect more angsty drabbles in the near future.

Once again, I'd appreciate comments on this one, as, again, I'm not quite sure if it makes all that much sense. All you have to do is click the 'submit review' button....

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Draco is used to snow blindness. When he was six, his father took him skiing in the Alps. He didn't leave the slopes for four days. The year after, his father took him to a private island in the Bahamas. Draco screamed until he could feel snow under his feet.

He loves skiing: the speed, the power, obviously. But the snow blindness is always best, always surprising. He should be long used to it, but it's shocking none the less. For a few moments the world teeters on the knife blade, no safeguards. And it is perfect.

The first time Draco sees Harry Potter, his gasp reverberates around his skull.

He really thought he was used to it by now.