A/N: Written in a fit of writer's block frustration. Vague and strange, but there's a point somewhere in there--if you look.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Harry (sort of) talking to Draco

xx

I see you every day—in family, in friends, in mirrors and in rivers—but I didn't—don't—know you very well. What's a face, a laugh, or one quirk that you one day notice in the grand scheme of things, hm? Nothing; all I knew was that you were an obnoxious brat, and you sought me out and made my life miserable. I hated you, but it wasn't exactly because of your annoying smirk and humongous ego that made me loathe you like I did; it was just something about you.

Real, smoldering, and…I guess you could say—threatening. That's what it was about when it came down to it, really; I was threatened by you, and you me. We felt we had to prove something to each other: without admitting it, of course, because we hated each other, and people who hate each other as much as we did—do—don't try to prove their worth to each other, because that would be stupid.

Going through our lives, me ignoring you and pretending to be engrossed with my own friends, and you laughing it up with your little harem of Slytherins and pretending you didn't care what I thought. We were kidding ourselves then, but I think maybe now it's worse—worse because now we know exactly what kind of game we've been playing, and even though we know how stupid it is we can't help but still play; because you're Draco Malfoy and I'm Harry Potter, and when we're against each other we have to win. Not so much for the prize, but for the glory—the glory of knowing that I, Harry Potter, beat you, Draco Malfoy; and of course the other way around.

You went on pretending and I went on trying to fool my friends, and things were almost all right, except now we had that thought in our heads—why did we have to pretend not to care what you think of me and what I think of you? Now that we know—why go on?

So then started the nightly trysts, where nothing much really happened. We'd try to insult each other, try to make the other rise to the bait (it hardly ever worked anymore after all these years), but soon we'd fall back to just plain old talking. About Quidditch, about our love lives (surprisingly, both were nonexistent), and sometimes, about the war. Once or twice we'd touch into the subject of Voldemort, but needless to say, that topic didn't hold much merit for either of us.

It went on for most of seventh year, and our relationship hardly changed. We still kept it a secret, though neither of us would admit that it was because we were scared shitless of what our friends would think, and we still didn't act as if we're anything but the rivals that we used to be.

We were happy with it for a while, or at least you thought we were, but then one day I just up and demanded "Why do we have to keep this a secret? All of it?" and you seemed a bit shocked; not surprising, really, since I had pretty much kept my mouth shut about what I felt. It was still a surprise to me that you were surprised, though, because I had always assumed that you felt the same way; never occurred to me that maybe you were completely fine with all the secrets, all the lying.

I almost regretted saying it, seeing the smile slide off your face like water; to see your gray eyes that had been laughing seconds before turn to ice. You weren't happy with me, and that made me unhappy; but it had to be done.

I doubt you noticed, but you had retreated into the shadows again, hiding your face and using it to help you hide your emotions—wasn't it funny that right then, we knew each other so well that you needed the help of darkness to hide from me? Funny, yes, in a terribly morbid and twisted way; disturbing, almost, how well I had come to know you when so few (if any) did—me, of all people, the bloody Boy Who Lived.

You didn't respond for a moment, and I let you keep your silence, because I figured you needed at least that much. I was afraid. Afraid that you'd reject me, that you had found nothing wrong with the arrangement we had going; and now that you knew an inkling of what I might be thinking I want from you…well. If you had picked up on the hint, the subtle clue to my feelings that I hadn't even realized was there until that moment…knew that only someone with something more than just friendship in mind would ask a question such as I had before—

You broke the silence, interrupting my thoughts, with a simple question: "Why now?" Softly spoken, confusion and vague contempt in your voice, your demeanor; indeed, why now? Why ask now, after so much had been said and done; when we had adapted ourselves to this new routine of life?

I searched my thoughts desperately for a response. The answer was there; not formed by words, but feelings and expressions, and I didn't quite know how to express them properly. I wanted the words to be true, honest, and real—I wanted no words or sentences covering up what was there.

So I said nothing, merely stared.

Standing there, as I was, I looked like an idiot: a slightly dazed and confused expression on my face, my eyes wide with surprise, and leaning awkwardly on a nearby desk. I blinked slowly and looked out a window, seeing nothing and I replied, almost subconsciously, "Because now I know."

Vague, yes, but I had gotten what I'd wanted: I'd told the truth, and you could make of it what you wanted to. What I knew I didn't know; what you knew, I was pretty certain: you were sure I'd gone mad, and I couldn't exactly disagree.

And then a thought was forming in my head, something I definitely did not want to be thinking, but it was still there. Lingering, leaving an imprint in my mind and soul—now that the idea had taken root, I couldn't let go of it.

What frightened me most was that I suspected it was true; truer than anything and everything that had gone on since this relationship (can I even call it that anymore, now that I know?) started.

But—one more test. I'd give you a last chance; let me watch and see if you can figure it out, see what you do. See if I—this—actually does mean more to you than I think.

I figured this all out in but three minutes, and all the while you're just standing there, staring. Your face, which I had once thought was so perfect, is filled with confusion. And doubt. A few more seconds of silence, and then:

You asked me what was wrong and I smiled and said "Nothing." And you left. Then I turned around and whispered, "Everything."

There's nothing funny about it; yet I smile inwardly as I watch your retreating back. If you can't even figure out what's wrong, or even why there should be something wrong, then I guess I was wrong too: you never cared. And, not only that, you never why you should (care, I mean.)

.finis