In the breezy morning, Draco sat on the Widow's Walk, with the uncanny idea of Luna Lovegood whirling around like Mary Poppins, blue eyes and all. He closed his eyes, enjoying the brutal sun and dancing wind. He knew his hair was going astray, but he didn't really care. Appearances were something he'd left behind, as much as he could.

Despite the zephyr's chaotic dancing, it had been quiet up above the house. Draco heard the small door open, easily picturing Theo - or Granger, up to chivvy him down again. Nobody ever seemed to understand why he wanted to be up here, after all.

The small door closed. Draco didn't hear a thing.

He smiled a soft, wistful smile. Maybe they didn't need him after all... And wouldn't that be just a thing? Not to be needed, just for a little bit?

Draco heard the reedy timber of Potter's voice. Draco's eyes flew open, his neck twisting to see Potter leaning on one of the railings, his legs nearly swinging. Swiftly masking any shock, Draco mentally reviewed what Potter had just said. "Your hair is getting to be about as bad as mine, Malfoy."

Draco shook himself, internally, before replying, "My hair could never be as plebeian as yours. It's just not possible."

Draco sees Potter mouthing the word plebeian, mentally translating He doens't know waht I just said. I'd better speak in smaller words. "Your hair is just as common as the rest of you. Mine, on the other hand, reflects my internal nobility."

"On the inside?" Harry Potter said, cocking his head, "Yeah, that's probably the only place it is. You bury it deep, that nobility, beneath being a ruddy bastard."

Malfoy grins back, wolfishly, appreciating the sense of humor. "How many bones do you think you'd break, if I pushed you off that railing?"

Harry's neck does that thing that Malfoy's is still doing (that is to say, getting a crick in it), as he calmly evaluates the distance down to the actual roof. "Not a one, I bet, I have learned how to land." Potter shrugs, "It certainly took me long enough."

"Wanna test that?" Draco says, smirking.

Potter shrugs, as if he really doesn't mind another set of bruises - then again, the Boy Wonder might not.

Draco wasn't playing around. He plants his feet on the Widow's walk, and pushes himself upward with his legs and butt. He spins, and - nearly gently - pushes Potter off the walk.

Or at least, that was how it was supposed to go.

Draco has only a second to realize that Potter's let go of the railing, and has instead grabbed Draco's shirt, before they're both falling onto the roof, and Draco's desperately hoping that the roof doesn't cave in.

By the grace of Godric Gryffindor, it doesn't break. This, however, leaves two young men rolling down the roof. Potter apparently hadn't accounted for Draco's presence impeding his ability to stop.

Somehow, they wind up on the ground, having landed in front of Theo and Hermione. Whatever they were talking about, it's abandoned immediately, in favor of:

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?" Hermione screeched.

"You know they've got more chutzpah than sense." Theo was somehow more audible, in his Snape-calm voice.

"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? I OUTTA SKIN YOU BOTH ALIVE!" Hermione had finally recovered enough to catch a deep breath. Draco, then, abruptly relearned that, like Pansy, Hermione was one of those women who could bellow.

"Vicious, this one." Theo says, tilting his head back to Hermione.

At this moment, the shock wore off, the world wavered, and Draco faded to black.

[a/n: No, he's not dead, although if he were, it would serve him right.]