A/N: This is my first slash fic, nonetheless H/D, so you gotta give me some leeway here. I think it's decent enough, but that's for you to judge. Anyway, to the summary.. Five years have passed, and Harry is finally allowed to, and ready, to face the Dark Lord.. But someone (Gee, guess who?) shows up and brings back old memories.. Okay, here it is, and I'm telling you that almost this whole fic, all I've written so far anyway, is flashback. Now to the fic.. Enjoy!

Murmurs and memories

Harry Potter

My name is Harry Potter, and I am honestly and truly scared out of my wits right now.

Moments like this, you're supposed to be brave, right? Well, you try sneaking into the hideout of Lord Voldemort--alone, may I add--without your knees shaking, your hands quivering and yes, even your bladder shaking. You'll fail.

My stomach turns at the thought of all the Death Eaters I've cursed; I've used Impedimenta, Stupefy, Expelliarmus.. Even though they're the bad guys, I've never liked hurting people. Never.

But of course, as I said, this is the enemy. I have the right to use Cruciatus if necessary.

I doubt it is, but I hope not.

I race down a hallway, casually of course, and pause. The hallway ends abruptly with a small room lit by torchlight. A single hooded figure stands beside a wooden door.

Blue eyes, pale as ice, cut me open, autopsy me with their calculated expectancy.

It's been five years and yet I remember that gaze so well.

The figure hesitantly lifts the hood with one finger and flicks it off his head.

Blonde hair, longish. A smooth, pale face, as if he was carved from ice, untouched, pure.

He's beautiful, like I remember. Still beautiful as he was when he was a teenage boy of 15. Ethereal.

He doesn't speak a word, and neither do I. I consider everything I could say, but words fail this moment.

And I remember.

Draco Malfoy

I remember watching him cry.

His wispy, boyish form, crouched, shaking, tears breaking onto bathroom tile like perverse pebbles in a pond.

"Fuck you," he said, wiping his eyes, still shuddering with pain. "Fuck you, Malfoy."

And I should've laughed. Made a comment. Kicked him. Something.

But I didn't.

Instead I looked down at him, head cocked to the side, and pulled the tear soaked glasses from his face.

His eyes, a startled green narrowed, opened wide again as I revealed nothing, said nothing. I'd never noticed how green they were behind those glasses and I gazed into them, those eyes of dizzying green…

I had no idea how long we stood, staring into each other's eyes in dead silence until I finally offered my hand to him.

He looked over at the gesture, shocked, surprised, then let me pull him up. His grip was surprisingly strong, but he released my hand quickly.

He hesitated, did a double-take at my neutral features. Eventually he said, "Malfoy--" in a tone so crisp you could rake it.

Was this a dream? An opportunity so rarely offered, the weakness of my rival handed to me on a silver platter!

And yet I did nothing.

"Yes?" So mild, he could have asked me the time at King's Cross, instead of--well, this, whatever this was--in a bathroom at one in the morning at Hogwarts.

I must have shocked him, because he was momentarily robbed of speech. Surprised by my own smoothness, I wiped his lenses, put them gently back on his face, fingertips lingering on his cheek..

"Get some sleep." No hate. It was as if I left it behind when I perchance entered a boy's bathroom at one in the morning and found him sobbing there.

Perhaps it was pity?

I left him standing there, hoping it was a dream and that everything would make sense the next day.

It didn't. It never did again after that night.

Harry Potter

The next morning at breakfast, our eyes locked. His eyes, an innocent indigo the night before, were now ice blue, impenetrable.

It hurt for some reason. I glared away.

Small talk at the Gryffindor table. I didn't pay attention, it was something about the upcoming OWLs. Ever since last night, everything..

Everything was packed in cotton wool. Except him.

I had broken down. Right there, in the second floor bathroom. The stress of school, social activity, and that Voldemort was out there, free to do what he pleased while I sat every night in safety able to do nothing, hit me hard.

And then Malfoy came in with his curious blank expression and turned my world upside down, confused everything, made black turn white.

There was a tap on my shoulder. I looked up to see expectant glances. I supposed I'd been asked a question.

"What?" I said.

Hermione rolled her eyes and said loudly, "I asked you if you're ready for the Quidditch match. Didn't you have practice last night?"

"Oh!" A subject to think about except Malfoy. "Yeah. I'm fine." I brought a vague forkful of egg to my mouth. "Should be great." Slipped it into my mouth, chewed.

Ron looked scandalized. "Harry, you're going up against Slytherin," he said indignantly. "And Snape's refereeing. This isn't Hufflepuff, you know." He gave a lopsided grin. "Not that I'm worried."

"Have faith in your Seeker," I said, forcing a smile. "Have I failed you before?"

"Well--" Ron knit his scarlet eyebrows together in a mockery of consideration. I hit him neatly on the shoulder.

"You're supposed to say no," I said in mock severity.

"But that'd be lying!" Ron pretended to be shocked. I stifled a laugh.

Fred appeared behind Ron and clapped him on the shoulder. "Nonsense, nonsense," he said

heartily. "Harry's a fantastic Seeker, great."

George appeared beside Fred. "Mind you, he tends to have bad luck--"

"--Extremely bad--" Fred inserted smartly.

"--Overbearingly bad luck, but a jolly good Seeker nonetheless. Isn't that right, Fred?"

"To the word," Fred agreed.

Fred and George never failed to cheer me, and as they dialogued like improvisational masters, I almost forgot about last night.

Almost. Until I realized I had forgotten. Then I shot a look at the Slytherin table.

There he was; sharp shoulders and smooth, cold features suggesting a perfectly chiseled ice sculpture, a work of art. His head turned my way, he looked hard at me, his eyes softened from ice to snowmelt, then hardened again. He looked away, and so did I; he looked back, and so did I.

Damn him. I had never thought of him this way before; beautiful? Perfect? What had that git done to my head?