She had been staring at him for too long. The steady clicking of the childish Mickey Mouse clock on her bedside table marked the seconds, but they were too many to count. Her widened gray eyes took in everything of his appearance; his polished black shoes resting on her comforter, the small teddy bear tucked under his arm, the Slytherin tie in a perfect knot around his neck, the glimmering of a signet ring on his right pointer finger...

There was no denying it. Draco Malfoy, wearing his Hogwarts uniform and infamous naughty smirk was on her bed. It took her several moments to realize that she had forgotten how to breathe. He was watching her; the grin had faded and he was instead raising an eyebrow and waiting for her to speak. However, it soon became apparent that Heather Westerton was beyond words.

"Strange," he murmured, his smooth voice making Heather visibly jump, "you're usually so loquacious when you're controlling my mind. But when it's yours..." He trailed off, watching her, his expression slightly disgusted. He sighed, and began toying with the floppy ear of a pink rabbit with two button eyes. The steady whirring of the air conditioning, the ticking of the uneven ceiling fan, and the clicking of the second hand filled the silence.

"Controlling?" Heather breathed. Draco sighed.

"So, it does speak," he muttered to himself.

"But controlling?" Heather was still staring at him, her gray eyes widened, doe-like and frightened. She fell backwards into her desk chair (as far away from him as the small room would permit) without realizing it.

"Yes, Miss Westerton," Draco replied, locking eyes with her. She shuddered slightly at hearing her name spoken by his voice. "Controlling."

He suddenly jumped up and began pacing, and she stared at him, unable to comprehend Draco Malfoy in her bedroom.

"Imagine a voice – you're voice – well, not..." He trailed off, unable to explain. Suddenly he was kneeling, his eyes level with hers. She was frightened by his bright-eyed passion, his sudden intensity.

"Every minute," he whispered. She could feel his breath on her face. "Every second, every action, a little voice, in your ear."

She swallowed, and as she stared into his eyes (which we blue at the moment) she could almost see the wheels and cogs of his mind turning furiously.

"You hear my voice," she responded dumbly, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes." His face was scant inches from hers. "Narrating."

It was undeniable that he was angry now, color rising in his usually-pale cheeks, his knuckles white from clutching the arms of her desk chair.

"Narrating," she repeated faintly.

"Yes," he growled.

"Excuse me," she murmured in a dream-like voice. She stood, gently brushing him aside. He scowled and stood, staring at her as she slowly made her way to the doorway and left her room. After a few moments, he heard the water of the shower turn on; grumbling angrily to himself, he returned to the bed.

"She'll believe me," he promised the rose-colored bunny. As the snuggled into the pillows, he opened the book once more and continued reading.

—

When the door opened, he glanced up from mid-way through the book (he was rather interested in the whole "Dumbledore's Army" thing, and why Ron and Hermione had not yet started making out during a meeting, as they would in a normal fanfic) to see Heather emerge from her the door, wrapped in faded yellow towel.

"Nice shower?" he asked, working hard to keep the anger from his voice and speak politely. The girl paled.

"You're still here," she muttered, looking terrified.

"Yes," he replied, shutting the book and sitting up. He raised an eyebrow. "What did you expect – that I'd go back?" He spat the last words out angrily, making her jump.

"To Hogwarts," she finished.

"To hell is more apt description," he snarled. After realizing her fear, he clenched his jaw, and stood slowly, holding his arms out to calm her like a criminal approaching authorities.

"You don't understand," he said, carefully choosing his words as he walked towards her slowly. Heather blinked twice, grabbed a pair of pajamas, and went back out the door. Draco sighed angrily, clenching his strong hands into fists until the fingers turned white.

Realizing it was 11:30, he sat down in the desk chair. Heather returned, refused to look at him or acknowledge his presence, and climbed into bed. She balled up on her side, her back to him, as though refusing to face him even in her sleep.

Watching her sleep, Draco forgot his anger. Although he was furious at this girl for narrating his life, he had to look at the situation rationally. She couldn't be expected to shoulder the blame and anger he had stored up from all the authors ever. Hermione had said that he should take her narrating as a compliment. Once he had wished: "If only those stupid fanfiction writers could see them then; nothing peculiar, no magic, no drama." And as Heather slept, she was just that; normal, naive, and alone.

Draco slowly closed his eyes in acceptance, and pulled the covers up to cover Heather's ear, patting her kindly. Taking a spare pillow that had somehow ended up on the floor, he curled up in the desk chair and fell asleep, tired for once.

--

Heather had been sure that she was dreaming, but when she woke up in the morning to her alarm clock, she saw that Draco Malfoy was still in her room. He looked as though he, too, had just woken up; his blonde hair stuck up and he was slowly patting it as he yawned.

"G'morning," he murmured. She sat bolt-upright in bed. He sighed.

"You still don't believe I'm real?" he asked disappointedly. "Look, I came out of your story. Through your closet." He gestured at the open door. Sure enough, when Heather looked through, she noticed that there was something strange; the whole back wall looked like a mirror.

"Mirror of Erised," he muttered. "Hey, it's fixed," he realized belatedly, and then shrugged.

Heather stared at him for a moment, and scrambled to the bathroom. When she returned, she was dressed for school, and carried a bunch of clothes.

"These are my brother's," she said, chucking the pile at Draco's head. He caught them deftly – but after all, he was a Seeker.

"Thanks," he said, glaring at her lack of politeness. She glared back, angry.

"I'm insane," she muttered. "I"m angry with a fictional character."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Draco, waving impatiently at her Muggle need to ignore magic as he ambled off towards the bathroom.

--

He returned fifteen minutes later, wearing the t-shirt and jeans and an incredulous expression.

"What now?" asked Heather. Luckily she had breakfasted and gotten all ready for school in the time it took Draco to shower.

"I don't like your shower," he replied darkly.

"What's wrong with it?" asked Heather worriedly, forgetting, in her concern, that she was supposed to be angry at him for making her schizophrenic.

"I dunno," Draco replied, unable to find the right words to describe his discomfort. "It's all... hot... and... uncomfortable. And the towel wasn't... towel-y." Heather stared at him for a moment.

"Have you ever showered before?" she asked. Draco stared back.

"Of course I have!" he replied quickly, angry at her for even imagining such a thing as possible. And then he thought. True, some of the more-creative, more-adult fanfics had included showers, but he had never truly had a fanfiction writer sit down and describe him washing behind his ears with grapefruit-scented soap. Heather didn't buy his answer, so he shrugged in defeat.

"Okay, not really."

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy," she giggled, "you have so much to learn."

He wasn't sure if he should feel insulted by that comment, so he walked to the door, prepared to follow her to the bus stop.

When he reached the door and she was still giggling, he turned and asked, "Are you coming?"

"What," she replied, "to watch you go to school for the first time? Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

And shy little Heather Westerton offered Draco Malfoy a saucy grin and headed for what was to be the most interesting – and education – day at school ever.