COME AROUND
Disclaimer: Harry Potter is the property of JK Rowling. Draco Malfoy, however much I'd like him to belong to me, ALSO belongs to JK Rowling. *sigh* No infringement intended.
Author's Note: I am back to write the strangest pairing I have ever attempted. Thanks for the kind remarks! I didn't know Draco/Cho fans actually existed. Apparently there are some, though at present, I do not count myself among them. I'm going to drag Draco all over the world (I'm doing my research already!), glad you guys are along for the trip. *evil grin* Review or die. EDIT: Oh, GOD, edited to correct some horrible grammatical errors. Am expecting a few more, and some spelling mistakes, too, due to the fact that this entire thing was written in Dreamweaver. Dreamweaver does NOT have a spellchecker, much less a grammar checker. I would have liked it to have a 'really lame, crappy, and pathetic' checker, too, but no luck there. While I'm correcting, I added a few, irrelevant things.

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According to the paperback guidebook he held in his hands, there was a certain spot in Tuscany (he couldn't spell the name, what more pronounce it?) that was absolutely beautiful during the sunrise. Draco made a face at the book as he walked aimlessly through the streets. He wondered quizzically if that meant that the particular spot in the middle of nowhere wasn't pretty at any other time except the morning, but this was irrelevant, he reasoned. Now, all he had to do was to catch the bus and drag himself off to Val d'Orcia. Draco considered it pointless to be backpacking around the spellbinding places of the world without bothering to even look at the bloody flowers. And there were flowers everywhere, thankfully. He didn't mean this literally, of course, but the flowers in Italy were an art. Camellias growing in the parks, vines and violet flowers growing on old, yellowed walls. Draco had come to love Italian architecture, from the Gothic churches to the smallest houses. A thought crossed his mind. He grinned naughtily. Italian women weren't that bad, either. No, not bad at all...

He was still lugging the backpack around, and had been so desperate to feel less hot that he'd resorted to wearing shorts. God, the shame! Khaki shorts, indeed! He'd bought a few things while on his trip, clothes he never thought he'd wear, books he never thought he'd read. But he read the books and he wore the shirts. In fact, he was quite proud of the one he was wearing now. It had Fugazi on the front. He was only vaguely aware, however, that this was a Muggle rock band, due to the approving stares a teenaged Italian girl gave him as he strode past her, sitting on a wall. It could have been because of his more-than-passable looks, of course, but you couldn't exactly miss all the kohl eyeliner she had on. It made her look like a bloody raccoon. Besides, she had a Fugazi sticker on her guitar case. Nah, it was definitely the looks.

Bus stop, where's the bus stop? he thought impatiently, tapping a foot on the cobblestone path. This picturesque view was the last thing he planned on seeing in Italy before he moved on to Barcelona, in Spain. He was also considering ditching Barcelona and flying to Switzerland, but he wanted to see a real bullfight and a football game. He'd already been to Roma, was currently in Florence (also called Firenze, apparently), he'd passed by France and nearly went crazy shopping for designer clothing in Milan and artwork in Paris (he had everything delivered to Malfoy Manor via Owl Post. There were, as he discovered, witches and wizards all over Europe). He squinted, spotting what looked like a stick with a small, flat square on top of it. Must have been the bus stop, he figured, as he picked up his pace. There were a few people standing there already, some carrying duffel bags, others, with barely any luggage. He stood next to a boy about a year or two younger than himself, with dark hair, brown eyes, and trademark Italian olive skin. "Scusilo, is this the bus stop?" Draco asked him, in his unsteady Italian. Having spent most of his nights reading through a phrasebook, he knew a bit of basic vocabulary.

"Sì, alla Val d'Orcia in San Quirico," he replied. Draco didn't bother trying to translate. He'd heard the words Val d'Orcia and San Quirico, and that was where he wanted to go. "È quello questo posto nella guida di corsa?" (Is that the place in this travel guide?) Draco queried, wishing to confirm what he thought. The boy seemed somewhat exasperated, brushing his unruly hair out of his face. "Sì."

"Grazie," Draco replied, offering the relieved Italian a smile. He looked away, at the other people planning to visit San Quirico. The bus rounded the corner, large and barely tinted. Draco dug his hand into his pocket and shelled out the sufficient amount of lira necessary for a ticket, boarded the bus, and sat near the back. He dumped his pack in the seat next to him, so that no one would disturb him. Propping his feet (in the most comfortable Nikes he owned) up on his bag, he pulled his Discman out of the side pocket and turned the volume all the way up.

Introspection time.

Having grown up with people who never really cared, he'd grown accustomed to releasing everything he felt through music and, at times, art. Rock music was, strangely enough, the best therapy he'd ever come across. Most people dismissed this genre, calling it noise, but these were the people who had never felt any of the emotions in the songs, and therefore, could not connect with the music.

It was a CD Cho had given him. Much as he hated her, he couldn't part with the album he was listening to. She bought it for him because the third track dealt with anorexia, which he'd had when she first got to know him. "Listen to Ana's Song and Emotion Sickness," she said. "They always remind me of you." The words and the melody were haunting, and Daniel Johns' voice was at its most expressive. Draco leaned against the window as he reminisced. The view was getting monotonous, anyway. Fields, trees, cows, trees, cows, fields, cows, fields, sheep, trees, goats, cows, trees.

Having been frustrated with the lack of control in his life, he decided to take control of something only he could take over: his body. Draco let a sad smile pass over his lips as he looked at himself in the window. He was still lean, but he was looking considerably better. Sometimes, he wished he could look directly into his own eyes, and figure out what he saw there. Figure himself out. Mirrors only reflected them, it took the essence away. His illness had destroyed his spirit even more, but every day, he grew happier. He starved himself, and at times, he wouldn't sleep. When it seemed like he couldn't feel anything anymore, he escaped to a dark, little-explored room on the third floor of the castle and wounded himself. Pain was the only thing he could feel back then. He thought he wouldn't be disturbed, he'd locked the door, but there had been somebody else there that night.

"Alohomora," someone whispered outside the door. He ducked into a closet and shut the door as far as it would go, hearing the footsteps drawing ever nearer. "Strange," a voice said. "This door is never locked when I'm here." Draco could make out the noise of the window being pushed open. A chilly draft blew into the room, and moonlight spilled through the crack in the closet. He peered, squinted, and focused, but couldn't see who was seated on the windowsill, legs dangling over the side. There had been nobody else in the room with the mysterious stranger.

The moonlight shone on the floor, turning the blood a glittering silver. The person--a girl, he deduced--turned around and stared at the stone. "Wh--what's this?" she murmured, hopping off the windowsill, streams of luminescence illuminating her back and her long, ebony hair. She walked slowly, tentatively, and knelt by the small pool of blood. She stared at it a while, trying to see if it was a deadly potion of some sort, and then dipped her fingers into the liquid. She held her other hand to her mouth as she gasped, her head snapping to follow the trail of droplets that Draco had left. Oh, crap.

Her figure drew ever closer. Don't open the door, don't open the door, don't open the door, he prayed fervently. It didn't work. The moonrays blinded him temporarily as the doors swung open. He tried to block his eyes with his hands. Bad move. The blood was now dripping freely onto the closet floor. "Oh, crap," he muttered, cringing.

"Malfoy?" the voice said incredulously. "Draco Malfoy?"

"Are there any other Malfoys at Hogwarts?" he replied scathingly. "Last time I checked, I was my parents' only child, and I plan to keep it that way, thanks." The offending Hogwarts student held his arm as gently as she could and pulled him out of the closet. "What have you done?" she exlaimed, surveying his bloody wrists worriedly. "What the bloody hell have you done? I have to get you to the infirmary!" His eyes cleared enough to see her face.

"No, you're not taking me anywhere, Chang. I can take care of myself!" he hissed, pulling his arm away and trying not to wince. He stepped away from her, his back to the window. He tried not to move his arms, but he couldn't help it. Any small movements stung, and his wounds were still bleeding. He tried his best not to wince. His best wasn't good enough. "You're in pain!" she gasped, tenderly placing a hand on his arm, being careful not to touch the wounds. "We have to go to Madam Pomfrey, you've lost so much blood. You could die." She said this as if she cared. Draco laughed scornfully. "Come on, Draco!" she pleaded, her face contorting with worry and concern.

Draco sneered cruelly at her, shoving her away from him. "Don't call me Draco. You never have, and you shouldn't. And what do you care? You're a Ravenclaw. You're like the rest of this godforsaken school, you all hate me. You should be happy to see me die. Get away from me," he snapped, grabbing his wand and pushing the doorway open. He poised to leave, and didn't want to hear her say anything else.

"I'm never happy to see anyone hurting," she whispered softly.

"Oh?" Draco asked sarcastically, turning around. "And why is that?"

Cho looked up and glared at him, her dark brown irises meeting his silver ones angrily. "No decent human being would like to see anyone else in pain. Are you happy when people get hurt?" she asked him pointedly in return, crossing her arms across her chest. She paused a moment, pretended to think, and smiled coldly at him. "Then again, you're a Malfoy," she spat, saying the name like a curse. "You're not decent and you're not human. None of you are," she added darkly, her eyes clouding over. Draco's silver eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, a growl burning in his throat.

It stung almost as badly as his wounds. "You're a hypocrite, Cho Chang," he shot at her. "You're a hypocrite." He clenched his fists and gave her the meanest look he could muster while still managing to remain standing. His breathing grew heavy, but he had to avenge himself. "You're a hypocrite. You're stereotypical, you're judgmental, and you don't even know me. You've no right to be telling me what I am. You know what you are?" he asked her, barely able to keep from shouting. His eyes boiled with fury.

Cho gave him a look. Tell me, it said, challenging him. He'd tell her, alright.

"You're perfect, that's what you are. Everybody loves you. Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, teachers, hell, even some Slytherins. You're popular, everyone knows you, everyone likes you, everyone's falling all over you like you're some bloody celebrity. You have never felt real pain in your whole bloody life. Pain to you must be breaking a nail or getting hit by a Bludger in Quidditch, banging into a table, maybe. That's just simple physical pain. You've never felt the pain inside yourself, the pain that never heals. The pain that won't go away, no matter how many daquiris or Mai Tais you down, no matter how many antidepressants you take. The pain that never goes away. And then the emptiness follows it. The lifelessness, the void of existence. When you finally want to feel, but can't. When nothing else works but the physical pain. The lack of control, the complete lack of control. I'm a puppet, Cho Chang. I'm a bloody puppet, I've never been allowed to be who I am, to do what I want, to say what I want. I've been frightened all my life, and I'm so scared that I can't even think what I want anymore. You have no right to be telling me what I am. I know what I am. I know what I've become. If you knew what I went through as a child, what I go through now and what I will be going through for the rest of my life, you wouldn't be surprised at the way I am. You've been loved. I don't know what love is like. I have never been cared for in my whole life, I have never felt like I belonged, no one has ever made an effort to understand me. 'Oh, he's a Malfoy, they're a bad lot, don't associate with him!' Do they ever try? Did you try?" he paused, taking a deep breath. Deep breaths didn't work, it wasn't enough. He was getting tired, and she could see it. He leaned against the wall. Let her see his weakness, let's see if she cared.

"You didn't," he said harshly. "You didn't try. You never tried to understand, and I can't blame you. Nobody understands, nobody cares. If I wasn't bleeding to death, you wouldn't have given me a second look."

Cho stood there, shocked and silent, not seeming to notice that there were tears streaming down her cheeks. Time passed by so slowly as they stood there, not looking at each other. Draco could feel it in the air. It was guilt.

"The colour's draining out of your face, Draco," she said softly, not bothering to argue with him. She was defeated. "I have to take you to the infirmary before anything bad happens to you. I don't want to see you hurting anymore." Draco closed his eyes and breathed. His heart was pumping furiously, his lungs were aching, and his head was spinning. He couldn't walk anymore, his feet were faltering. The blood was pooling at his feet.

"Morbilicorpus," Cho whispered. He felt himself floating in midair before the darkness claimed him.

He had opened his eyes the next day in the Hospital Wing, wearing the ridiculous Hogwarts pajamas. There were rose petals and jasmine flowers by his pillow, and a small note.

Draco,
No one knows what happened last night.
I won't tell anyone.

I'm sorry.
--C

Madam Pomfrey, having noticed his state of consciousness, quickly bustled over to check on him. "What a horrible accident you must have suffered, Mr. Malfoy! Imagine, a suit of armor falling on you! If its saber had landed on your neck, you would have died! It's a good thing Ms. Chang happened to find you before it was too late!" she exclaimed, looking at his wrists and giving him a pitying glance. "In any case, I will be keeping you here for the next two days to make sure you're better, until you regain your health and your strength." She gave him a pat on the head and went to fetch him a pitcher of water. He took a glass from her gratefully.

Draco sighed, and laid back on the soft pillow. Apparently, he was stuck here for the next few days. How boring could that be?

"Oh, and Draco, dear, from your medical report, it seems you haven't been eating much lately. Your health has dropped and deteriorated. Is there something wrong? Are you showing signs of allergy to the food served at Hogwarts? If your eating habits keep up this way, there is a great possibility of malnourishment, and death. Your immune system is weakening," the nurse mentioned, placing a hand on his shoulder. Like she cared. Which she didn't.

Draco shook his head. "Nothing's wrong, Madam, I just haven't been hungry lately," he lied. Madam Pomfrey nodded. "That's fine, I'll bring you your lunch later on and make sure you're in perfect condition for your classes when you return."

He did nothing the whole time he was in the infirmary. No one visited him that day, or the next. No Slytherins, no Crabbe, no Goyle, no Cho Chang. It deepened his lack of faith in the human race. Nobody cared about him. Draco laughed bitterly, his gray eyes clouding with what must have been tears. Why was he surprised that nobody was there for him? Wasn't that the way it always was? Wasn't it the way he was brought up? To be alone, to fend for himself?

If he had been Harry Potter, there would be cards, flowers, and candy waiting for him. But there was nothing. Just the smell of roses and jasmine. He wasn't Harry Potter.

He never would be.

Draco smiled faintly as he looked out the window. Still more trees, more fields, but less cows. They seemed to have been replaced with hills and beautiful villas, and through the open windows wafted the fresh air of the Italian province. He would have to spend the night at some inn, and then wake up before dawn to find the spot he was looking for. It didn't matter. He had all the time in the world.

San Quirico wasn't that far a drive, apparently. He was on the bus for three or four hours, and had spent most of the time remembering things he would rather have not remembered. He stretched languidly as the bus pulled to a stop. He shook the sleep off his legs and stood, grabbing his pack off the seat and hopping off the bus. "Grazie!" he called out to the bus driver, who offered him a nod and a smile.

Now, to find an inn.

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The house he was staying in was beyond beautiful, aside from being very quaint and comfortable. The roof was covered with glazed red tile, the walls were slightly yellowish, and vines with red flowers were crawling all over it. This place felt, strangely enough, like home. More homey than Malfoy Manor, at least. That place felt like an asylum. The room was cheap and it had everything he would need, two large mirrors, a closet, a queen-sized and very nice bed, and a bathroom with all the amenities. Draco didn't ask for much, really. The mirrors were the foremost requirement, however.

It was only five in the afternoon, but he decided to take a raincheck on dinner and go straight to bed. He did, after all, want to catch the sunrise, didn't he?

He threw himself onto the mattress, still in his shorts and Fugazi shirt, and easily dropped off to a dreamless sleep.

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Draco moaned a bit as he tried to drag himself out of bed. It was already four AM, he would have to get going soon to find Val d'Orcia. Oh, he knew where it was, it was the actual finding of it that was the problem. The landlady had told him, however, that Val d'Orcia was quite nearby, about fifteen minutes away by foot, less by bike. (Loosely translated, of course). He borrowed her son's bike, dressed himself in a comfortable shirt (Tool this time), a pair of jeans, and took his camera with him as he left. Almost everyone was still asleep. The cook was up, though, and offered him some coffee and breakfast, but he declined politely and went off on his way.

He couldn't exactly see anything in the darkness, but the street lights lit the way, and a few well-placed sign boards helped quite a lot. Soon enough, he found himself a comfortable position in the middle of a field, facing east, leaning against a camellia tree as he waited to meet the sun. A few delicate rays broke through the sky, turning black into dark blue. Slowly, but surely, the darkness was beaten back by the light. The whole of Italy seemed covered in a grayish mist.

Draco preferred sunrises to sunsets. Sunsets were said to be poetic, but sunrises were even more so. Sunrises were like birth anew, the breaking of the darkness was like hope and salvation to him.

He smirked, brushing his silver hair out of the way. He was becoming more dramatic, wasn't he?

Draco closed his eyes and enveloped himself in the smell of flowers. Not that of camellia, but of roses and jasmine. Roses and jasmine had always been his favourites, and the smell took him back to the few times he'd been truly happy. Roses and jasmine had always seemed to herald the coming of something unexpected. What would they bring him this time, the red and the white?

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Author's Note: Bored again. :D Am definitely continuing writing this. Am also editing a few other fics I took off FF.n. Hurrah for me. God, why am I writing this pairing? I also do not know where the bloody hell San Quirico is in Tuscany. I have no bloody idea. I do not know how far Florence is from San Quirico, and thus, am making things up. San Quirico exists, though, I've seen gorgeous pictures of the landscape at sunrise. I will go there someday. Review and inspire me to continue, willya?