Disclaimer: Not mine, I'm not making money, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera . . .

Note: This is the story again. Well . . . my hair is in wild, damp ringlets; I'm wearing a tight tank top even though it's December; I've got a fucking cough; and I'm listening to Something Corporate: Me and the Moon . . . until I get a hold of the regular song, anyway. At any rate, thanks to:

No One: You guys can all go to Hell. I can't believe none of you reviewed. You suck. I'm only writing this because I enjoy it. You can all go write your own fucking fanfiction. Review that, Bitch.

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This may never start
Tearing out my heart
I'd be your memory
Lost your sense of fear
(I'd be your memory)
Feelings disappear
Can I be your memory?

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Harry punched at the stone walls of Hogwarts. They did nothing and he retaliated, kicking and screaming . . . and sobbing. He ripped down the garish tapestry on the adjacent wall and jettisoned it through the bathroom door where it crashed into the mirror. Tiny pieces of glass painted with nickel and mercury tinkled as they ricocheted against the floor.

"Damn these walls!" Harry clawed at the cruel rock. "Damn this castle!" He flung himself against that damnable thing. The golden boy slid slowly down onto the ground—into himself—crying for his bloody hands, for his aching bones, and for the reason he was in the state he was. "Damn you, Draco . . ."

The stone and mortar stood as it always did: pitiless and uncompassionate. What did it care for the-boy-who-lived? He'd done what he'd come for hadn't he? So what was the use of him anymore? No one needed him now—least of all Draco. Draco . . . That bastard didn't even care what Harry said to him anymore. It was as if every insult Harry threw was nothing—as if Draco didn't even take him seriously. He looked more like he enjoyed it. Fucksake, I can't even insult him right. First I couldn't love him right, and now I can't hate him right. Damn it. Sometimes, just sometimes, Harry wished he could turn back time.

But did Draco care? Of course not! Nope, Draco tore him to shreds and then gave that little, disarming smile when Harry tried to fight back. That stupid, beautiful smile. And then the minute Harry turned around or let go Draco ran. Like he didn't want a thing to do with him. Probably didn't. He was, after all, the one who ended; the one who started it, the one who ended it . . . as though Harry had no say in the matter at all. That was Draco, though, Harry supposed: waltzing in and out of peoples lives as he saw fit. But you can't waltz without leaving footprints . . . in this case, all over Harry's mutilated heart.

It seemed like the only time Harry could even get Draco to look in his direction was if he was pushing him against a wall, spewing every insult known to man. Draco didn't love him, and he never had. Now, though, Draco didn't even fear him. In fact, Draco didn't even seem to hate him. Draco probably didn't even think of him on a regular basis.

For months Harry had been dating girls left and right. He'd even dated Luna Lovegood. That hadn't been too bad—in fact it had been pretty nice—but there came a point when she, too, just wasn't . . . Draco. That was ruining all of his relationships, lately. And after each one he'd go up to his rooms and get into a fuss. Like he just had. And, of course, the one being in school that was Draco didn't even bat an eyelash on his account. Not one golden eyelash over one grey eye.

"I hate pale. I hate grey. Most of all, though, I hate gold; Dr-Malfoy's gold anyway." He told the footboard of his bed; it didn't look like it believed him.

He sighed and stood up. His shoes crunched and ground the smashed glass on the bathroom floor as he turned on the water to sting his hands. He watched red spiral with the water like poison until it trickled into the drain. He roughly dried his hands then grabbed the invisibility cloak: Harry needed a walk.

Of course, it wasn't until Harry was ascending the steps to the astronomy tower that he realized how long it'd been since he went out past curfew just for a walk. Lately he'd been . . . otherwise occupied. The Marauders' Map was in his back pocket but he hadn't looked at it all night: he didn't need to. It was a Monday night so there almost definitely were no silly couples snogging in the tower. Everyone in his right mind was asleep. It had to be AM. Somehow, Harry found he didn't care. It was a beautiful night; Harry could smell it from where he was.

Harry bound up the last few steps and must have misjudged where on the spiral staircase he was, because he bound through the tower's luckily opened doorway onto it's unluckily occupied roof—more accurately, into the other occupant. For a moment he wasn't sure who it was. It could have been anyone. Harry took a deep breath and adjusted his glasses as the world spun back into place. Suddenly he felt the contours of the body he was entwined with. And he knew them. Well.

He didn't move—didn't want to. Draco wouldn't know who it was, anyway. It wasn't as though Draco was facing him. If I run . . .? Harry wondered. But instantly he shot it down. He hadn't felt Draco like this in what seemed like ten eternities. Merlin, He hadn't been in the same room as Draco alone since that night in the halls. And that really wasn't a room, anyway. Then again nor was this. But, Harry thought, this is better. Under the stars . . . with Draco. Harry looked at what he could see of Draco—his angel. Harry looked at the nape of Draco's neck and at the soft wisps of golden hair being teased in the breeze.

And just like that Harry's lips betrayed him.

"Draco . . ." He whispered against the golden down.

His ears heard this and his mind was horrified. I blew it! Shite! What have you done? But no movement came from the boy in his arms right away.

"Harry . . ."

At the sound of his name from Draco's lips Harry began kissing softly at the neck before him. Draco tensed. Instinctively, Harry pulled Draco closer to comfort him. Don't do this, don't do this! Harry's mind was screaming. But his heart and body objected.

"Harry," Draco squirmed in Harry's arms and sat up, not looking at him, "do you . . . do you love me?"

Harry froze. The words were caught in his throat. Things were replaying in his head and thoughts were pouring through him. But loudest of all was the sweetest thought of all. Through foggy eyes Harry saw his hand snake up to cradle Draco's chin and turn the angel's face to him. His other arm was levering him up while his eyes moved not from the two tearful ones he knew so well . . .

"Yes."

And Harry didn't close his eyes until he was sure he couldn't focus, because he didn't want to ever miss one minute of Draco. Two pairs of blushing pilgrims found each other sweetly, and silently, and just a little hungrily. Draco's body pressed itself down to Harry's and the kiss went on . . . warm, and perhaps a little sticky; but in the fingertips that massaged their ways into hair, and in the kiss that was more than just making up there was something that Harry couldn't quite wrap his arms around though he was sailing on the crest of it: love.

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Note: Don't you dare think that was the end. Oh no, I'm not done with you yet—not by a long shot.

And a Happy New Year.