Summary: The love that holds you gently. The pain that grips you tightly. He was the one you've hated. He was the one you love. But he has forgotten all of it.
Set in Draco/Your POV.
In sixth year, Harry is pained by what has happened the previous year. Draco shows him that pain is foolish when kept inside. Denial of feelings grow, yet they accept it cautiously. Letting it build and create bliss with twists.

Warnings: SLASH! Lots of OOC. Events go fast, as my intent to once be a one-shot.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K Rowling. You've got to be crazy if you thought HP was mine.

Author's Notes: This was suppose to be a ONE-SHOT! But I got carried away. The beginning may seem extremely undetailed, uneventful, and fast but it was because when I was writing, my mind was on a one shot. But suddenly I thought of a plot. Wrote all the things trailing to the plot. And than BAM! I have a story.

I don't like this style of writing a story, but I've started and I dare not to change everything. I know if I do, I'll screw everything up.

So excuse the poor quality. It WILL get better and not so vague. This is my FIRST Harry Potter fiction, mind you. Don't worry, I am SO completing this, since I've already written the damned ENDING! I just need to fill up the middle, and viola, I'm done. D

Enjoy!

You hate him. You always have.

You have learned through the years to hate his voice, the smooth dialect that escapes through the delicate pink lips. You have learned to loathe the dark raven hair that you have sent stares to so often, you have memorized every curve and place of every strand. You have seen those shining emerald eyes, the ones that look at you with rage and disgust, with sadness and doubt, and with curiosity and innocence. The ones that are etched in your mind whenever that name comes to hear. And then the feeling would come, pleasantly pulsating through your blood and giving joy to your body and mind.

But then you remember you hate him and it all goes away.

He is walking towards you and you catch his eye. A growing urge to hear, speak, and touch arouses through you as he gets closer. Plastering on your most evil smirk, only reserved for him, you approach and stand in front of him. Towering over him a few inches, you fall into the depths of forest green, trying to find the shine and twinkle in his eyes, but it's not there. You hiss at the accusing new eyes having not been able to see the old ones for so long.

He has changed and you can't stand it. It doesn't worry you and of course it doesn't affect you, it simply just.. bothers you. So you can't help but double your run-ins and arguments with him, to hope to find the old him there. But every time you find him, you hardly recognize him.

"Potter." you force a growl, trying hard to sound hateful. You wait for an answer, but only get the expressionless face. He hasn't been retaliating normally lately. Whatever you say, whatever you do, only earns you nothing from him. You want to grab him, to demand what is wrong. You want to hear the explanations, so your mind may rest with ease at the newfound news. And you want no longer to spend sleepless nights pondering and wondering about the boy.

Instead you shoot an insult at him, square and right on target.

"You should be dead." you insult with a sneer. You watch the eyes flash, an unfamiliar malice racing through the depths. His lips quirk into a smirk, and you remember he does not smirk, he grins, smiles and laughs. You narrow your eyes and wait for his words.

"I know." and he walks away, leaving you there.

x.x.x.x.x

He has distanced himself from his friends. No longer is he walking with that Mudblood and Weasel, instead he stalks the halls alone, head held low. You hear that the two others had given up on the boy, leaving him. There's anger penetrating every time you see him alone and you want to kill, yet you push it away. You remember you should be rejoicing that your enemy is being put down and falling without any safety. That he will reach rock bottom and die there.

It eases the urges and feelings and fills you up part way.

The majority of Hogwarts' population has decided to help ease his despair and perhaps get on his good side. You see them smile faintly at him, trying to catch his eye. They wave and shout greetings, hoping to be heard. Yet he walks obliviously, not noticing the commotion around him.

You follow him as far as you dare; to the staircases of the Gryffindor Common Room, to the doors of his classes and the frequent visits to the washrooms. You watch him eat in the Great Hall, or perhaps, pick at his food as nothing gets through those tightly closed off lips. You always find him reading in the library, and you just tell yourself it's a coincidence. He reads the same book, chin in palm and gazing blankly at the pages. Sometimes he's him asleep and you find that was the only time he looked familiar to you.

Then one day you, you enter the library and see him, asleep and serene. You pass by his table, just to walk to the bookshelf behind him. But once you see him, your insides jump at the site. There is a small pool of glistening blood flowing freely from under his hand. His cheeks stained with twinkling tears and his face contorted in strained pain. Before you can stop yourself, you are beside him, shaking him awake.

His eyes open and they are full of innocent fear. He sees you and the trait disappears from existence and, instead, closed off barriers cover the entrance in his eyes.

"What do you want?" he says quickly, shock relevant in his tone. You back away, seeing that you had almost crossed the line that separates you and him.

"Seeing if you were dead." you say, and quickly wipe the effect of concern away with a sneer and you add, "Too bad you're not. Pity, really."

He sighs tiredly and looks at you with determination. You have seen that face many times before. He uses it with the teachers, with people who question his well-being, and once to use it for his friends. Though, inside you see right through it. Underneath that thick surface, lies pools of distress and helplessness. You see his struggle and his lack of energy. When you see that face, you get the feeling he wants to die. As if he's lived through too much to breathe another gulp of life's essence.

You don't understand why he does that, neither do you understand why you see it.

"Leave me alone, Malfoy." he says lazily.

"Why? And miss a chance to find you dead?" the words you find are getting harder to come out, as you no longer use them with full force. "I'd love to see that filthy Mudblood crying over your dead body." It was much easier to insult his.. accompanies.

At this, his gaze is fogged up and even if he was looking at you, you get the distinct feeling he is gone. This look startles you slightly, simply because that look only existed from people who were really dead.

"You're making a mess." pointing to the crimson that blended with the burgundy wood table. He realizes this and snaps out of his reverie. Spotting the accusing liquid he hisses and grabs the end of his robes, desperately trying to soak up the blood. You sigh and with a flick of your wand, the mess is gone and all is clean. He blinks dumbly than it changes to fury. Most likely at himself or you. "Seriously, Potter. And you call yourself a wizard?"

He growls and stands up, holding the bleeding hand closely out of your view, yet you catch a glimpse of the source of pain. "Shut up," He doesn't even use your last name. He turns to walk away but you grab him, stopping him in his tracks. The tracks that are overlapped by so many others that it's hard to know which ones to follow.

He turns sharply to face you and you look down on him. His gaze travels to your hand that gripped his elbow, your fingertips white from the pressure.

"What?" he snaps, his eyes moving quickly to yours again. You don't answer, but instead you ask yourself the same question. "If you have nothing to say, let go of me."

You narrow your eyes and contemplate what to say. Nothing goes through your head except for one simple question, "Why?"

He tenses up, standing up straighter and locks his gaze more firmly on yours. He masks on the determined face and you want to pound him. He can't lie from you. You know something is dangerously wrong and is bothering the green-eyed boy immensely. You know he has changed probably for the worse. You know he is in pain and something inside you wants to stop this. You have inflicted hurt upon him, but never this much. Not even from all the times he had fought Voldemort, did he turn out this way.

You have wanted to know why for so long, yet never bothered to ask. You hate him. You always have. And when you hate someone, you care nothing for them.

"Why what?" but he knows perfectly well what you're asking him.

"If you don't tell me why you're doing this to yourselff, Potter," you warn, tightening your grip and moving closer to his face. "I will seriously beat the bloody crap out of you."

"It's none of your business," he says so softly you hardly hear him. You relax your grip and he takes his chance to escape. He walks quickly out of the library, hand still dripping with blood and into the corridor. You follow him, not letting him out of your site.

You've had enough. You can't possibly let him off that easily. Pinning him to the wall, the hall deserted, you shout at him. You shout at him because you want him to listen. You shout at him because you want him to hear you. You shout at him because you're afraid he may be too far to catch your words.

Glorious green eyes, like the fresh ripe grass that comes after a rainfall, stare at you, spotted with fatigue. The eyes that once reflected his every emotion and feeling; his pains and his joys; they ones that made him whole. The ones you have yearned to see again.

But now as you look upon him, you see mounds of barriers. Walls, chains, locks, and masks. They all hid what was inside. Locking his every sentiment that went through him, processing through his heart and mind, but unable to be shared.

You grow quiet, but he does not reply, looking at you with nothing in his gaze. There is a silence carving deeply into the atmosphere and you wait. You don't breathe, not making a sound as if approaching a wild creature. If you make any other sudden noises, they might run off again. You don't want that.

"Why do you care?" the silence departs and you breathe again.

"I don't care." you say stubbornly and you watch his face fall. You suddenly realize that his face was full of something else.. was it hope? Had he hoped that you cared? Had he hoped that there was something between you and him besides that fleeting emotion of rich hatred and disgust; that maybe there was more?

Or maybe it was just you.

"Than let go of me." he makes no movements of struggle and you let go of his bony arms. He sighs again and looks down at his feet. You watch him still standing in front of you, waiting. Waiting maybe for him to run, maybe for him to shout, maybe for him to hit you.

But you did not expect his hand.

It's stretched out to you, sideways and pleading for yours to hold on to. You glare at it, narrowing your eyes as if it might hurt you anytime soon.

"I don't want to fight anymore.. so can we just.." he says, tiredness in his features. ".. just start over or something."

"What for?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "You want to be friends now?" It seemed impossible to take his hand now. Not after years of brutal hate and living up to the name of enemies. It was like asking to own the world. Entirely unrealistic.

"If you want." he shrugs and thrusts his bloody hand forward towards you more. Hesitating you grasp the smaller hand, feeling the smooth skin against yours and the dried blood. And suddenly, it seemed you could own the world.

"I'm Harry Potter."

"Draco Malfoy."

x.x.x.x.x

It has been lately two months since you had accepted Harry Potter's existence as someone other than an enemy. And within that time, you've learned a little more about The Boy Who Lived. How you had expected this, but turned out that it was completely the opposite from your predictions. You never imagined his childhood, how he was living in oblivion lapped with the utter pain of loneliness. Now as you think back, your foolish actions of hate must had made him even more miserable. You also find that his reckless acts of heroism were all topped with the infinite vast feeling of fear. As if you had thought he was fearless. Yet, as the eleven-year-old you once dreamed about Harry Potter being Draco Malfoy's friend, the concepts finally became true. And your younger self rejoiced.

It was definitely odd. The tensions between you and Harry broke and no longer do you fight nor hurt each other. Walking through the halls, passing each other created no fiery bolt of lightning or anger that brewed the strongest of winds. Instead, all was calm and euphoria reigned. It was a routine to spend at least one hour a day with the green-eyed boy. Sometimes studying, talking, or just content to soak in each other's presence silently.

During your serene meetings, the unanswered question of 'Why?' went through your mind constantly, pleading to be answered. But you don't dare to ask, knowing full well he will not tell.

You both know the walls separating Harry and you. It was impossible to see each other, as the walls were so tall and well-built. Only to hear the voices and know the other was on the other side was possible. You don't want to break the stone, afraid everything might tumble over and hurt him. Crush him. Kill him. Your true self and everything else that surrounds you is everything he hates.

You ask about Weasley and Granger. He says nothing. Only sighs and runs a hand through his messy hair. A burning jolt creeps through your skin, cutting the ice and melting it.

"They're just busy." he reassures you, but you feel like he is trying to convince himself too. "It's nothing."

"With what?" you smirk. "Are they too busy shagging each other senseless?"

His eyes widen in disbelief and shock. He throws a book at you, but you catch it easily because of your Seeker skills. Thankfully, Madam Pince did not see this, or Harry would've landed himself in some deep shit.

"I can't believe you just said that!" he practically yells, but the Gods do not feel like punishing him. Madam Pince was no where insight. "Urgh, you just sent me such a nasty mental image."

"What would be nastier," you say, trying to mimic Granger's textbook voice "is you shagging along with them. Oh, how thrilling threesomes are."

This earns you another book, with a few parchments knocking on your forehead. You grin with satisfaction and wit.

"You're a git, Draco." and he slumps back in his chair, picking up his quill and starting on his Potions homework. You mind forms a very naked Harry Potter, kissing and hugging someone. But you quickly push it away. You watch his fingers clasped onto the thin feather, and the delicate stokes upon the parchment. His face is contorted into a frown, probably resentful to start that piece of homework. You watch the emerald eyes, sparkling faintly, but still not like before. Suddenly, you see your own reflection upon the forest green and notice he is staring back at you.

Than with no thoughts whatsoever, you climb the wall and reach over the top, feeling the other's hand under yours.

A/N: So, what do you think? I need lots of of CRITISM! I don't care of it's not constructive. I need pure, hurtful, critism. And of course suggestions.

For those who have read my work before, you know I always break my promises. But you see, my last story, my stupid sister deleted the chapters I had already written. And I was so put down, I stopped. Too much pain. -sniff-

Now, click and type away! (please)