The letter fell out of Draco's hand, his face paler than usual, the famous Malfoy smirk-his security blanket-firmly in place.

He stared at it, from its place on the table, and finally seemed to understand. He swiftly stood up, knocking his chair over as he did so, but didn't bother to pick it up. Instead, he snatched the sheet of parchment from the table and went running, as quickly as he could, towards the Astronomy Tower, not heeding the other's warning that he would already be gone. He didn't notice the odd looks from the other students as he rushed from the Great Hall.

As his feet hit the each stone, echoing through the silent stair wells, all he could think of were those last words: Goodbye, Malfoy, Draco, my Dragon.

When had Potter ever called him Draco, for God's sake? Was the boy drunk? His heart tugged though, at the thought of the way the other had written the letter, almost using a loving tone, in the way he spoke of him.

Yet how could he be such a bloody fool, to give up so easily? And it wasn't just on the rest of the world he was talking about-he didn't give a damn if Potter forgot about the rest of the Wizarding world. It was that he had given up on himself that had astounded him, more than anything had. Merlin, how could he have done that to himself? He had so much to live for, more than anyone else, in Draco's opinion. He had-what he grudgingly admitted-great friends in his Gryffindor housemates, especially the other two members of the Golden Trio. While Weasel was tall, gangly, had a huge temper, not enough brains to fill a tea cup, and spoke more quickly than he thought (which couldn't have been hard, in Draco's opinion, because he had a huge mouth and little brain), and Granger may have been a mud-blood, a know-it-all, bossy, and too intelligent for anyone's good (which pained Draco to admit), they were both loyal friends, for the most part, and only got in short, little spats, but when it came down to it, never left Potter's side. However, he could see where the Boy-that-Lived (he refused to call him by his new, self-appointed title, as it hurt his heart just to think it) thought being friends with a Slytherin would be preferable than befriending a bloody Gryffindor. After all, Slytherins were intelligent, cunning, had a quick wit and cool countenance, and cared more for saving their own ass than others-something Draco heartily agreed with, which was probably one of the reasons he was in Slytherin, and loyal to the dark lord-well, not completely loyal, but he knew who was going to win, and it would look better if he followed him, as he valued his life.

He was nearing the top of the astronomy tower. Quickly, he made the turn needed to get to the roof. He made quick work of the ladder descending from the trapdoor, and was quickly standing atop the building. Covering his face with a hand, trying to avoid the rain that was surging down on him, he frantically looked around for the other boy. It took two sweeps of the area to find him, as he seemed to fit right in with the darkness of the night.

Shivering, Draco made his way over to Potter, teeth grinding together. Why had Potter had to choose tonight of all nights, when he was likely to freeze his bloody ass off?

The other boy seemed not to notice his presence, for he was leaning over the short wall, looking down at the ground. Draco shivered; this time not from the cold-Potter was really doing it. Of course, he knew he was, but seeing him preparing to jump was much different than merely reading it in a letter-a very emotional letter, he had to admit, but a letter none-the-less.

"Potter," he called over the howling of the wind, which was quickly picking up. The boy stiffened upon hearing, but didn't bother turning around, instead leaned farther down, as if embracing the night.

Embracing death.

Draco's heartbeat quickened.

"Potter, get your arse away from that edge and get back here now! Do you bloody understand me? Get back here now!" He was screeching, he knew. He couldn't help it-he was, for the first time in his life, afraid for someone that wasn't him. Afraid for Potter. That thought just sounded wrong. Yet somehow, so right.

Again, the damned idiot didn't listen. Draco ground his teeth together and scowled. He was deep in thought, considering what to do, when a flash of lightning struck somewhere in the distance, lighting up the sky, and he could see Potter's silhouette as he stood above the short stone wall. He rushed forward, towards him, but he had already disappeared over the edge.

The blond wizard stared over the edge, heart caught in his throat, gripping his wand tightly in his hand...that was it! His wand! Merlin, why didn't he realize this before? He could use his bloody wand!

At this point, he would've dearly liked to slap himself on the head. However, there was no time. Quickly, he murmured a levitating spell and aimed his wand at Potter. He stopped, mid air. Then, Draco firmly pulled his wand up, knowing that the boy suspended in mid-air would have to follow the movement.

Moments later, he was hovering over the walk on the tower, green eyes wide and filled with pain. Filled with questions. Questions that he couldn't, wouldn't, refused, to voice.

Draco sniffed and ended the spell, making Potter fall the last remaining inches to the ground. He told himself that he didn't care that it might have hurt, even as his fist clenched in worry.

"Potter, how in the hell could you do such a bloody foolish thing? Gryffindor bravery, my arse! This is a Slytherin thing to do, I hope you realize! Bravery has nothing to do with it! You were turning tail and running! Merlin, you insufferable prat, if you were going to do something so bloody stupid, you may as well have not deluded yourself into thinking it was bravery! And, speaking of doing such insufferable things, the nerve! You actually come up here, plan to kill yourself! You know there are millions of people out there, ready to listen to all of your bloody pathetic problems, if you would only just let them! Half the wizarding world would love to give you a shoulder to cry on, and all the wizard shrinks would like nothing better than having you lie on their couch for a session! So get over your self-pity! There are people that need you, and you can't just bloody give up on them! Merlin! After all your fight the good fight rubbish, I never expected you to try this!"

He looked down. The other boy wasn't even listening. Just staring, not hearing, as he ranted. Merlin. He really was insufferable. He had hoped this was what Potter needed-to have someone be brutally honest about how stupid he was. Someone who was outside all of this- well, outside all of the stuff with Dumbledore and his friends and everything-that would be able to make him see sense. Never mind that he agreed with him-he was having a bloody hard time with this, and he did need to find a way out of it. However, killing oneself is never the solution. The Slytherin's unofficial motto (the official motto was quite old, having been made by Salazar himself) was 'If your arse is at stake, then it is never the right way.' It really applied to all situations. Risking yourself was never the correct way to do anything, despite what all those bloody idiotic Gryffindors thought.

Damn. Potter was still out of it, and he had no way to get him back to normal. He shivered suddenly, and Draco realized for the first time that maybe outside, in the freezing cold rain and wind wasn't the best way to confront the moron. Without a second thought, he scooped the other boy up in his arms, extremely shocked at his weight, which was far lighter than it should've been for a young man his age.

After carrying him back down the ladder, one hand gripping the railings, one hand holding tightly to the other boy, he gently set Potter down on the floor. The castle was magically heated, so it wouldn't be too cold, he supposed, having never actually tried it himself.

Who really cares, Draco thought, as if to rebuke himself for his supposing, It's just Potter

Still, he was very tender as he wrapped his own cloak-which he had magically dried, around the other boy, not even thinking that he could do the same to the clothes the young savior had on himself.