Sighing mentally, I let my feet carry me out through the Portrait of the Fat Lady after Ron and Hermione.

It was eight in the evening. Two days to the Christmas Eve.

The autumn term at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry would be over tonight, and people would leave home. Leaving, going back to their families, laughing and dancing and getting loads of presents.

Not that the joyful outlook had anything to do with me, though.

I was Harry Potter.

I was not going to spend the holidays at Ron's place, even though I knew I was welcome. I was no Weasley.

I was Harry fucking Potter. And I wanted to cope with a lonely Christmas.

Why the fuck didn't they let me have a lonely Christmas?

The Great Hall was as magnificent as always at this time of the year.

I hated it.

At some point during this seventh year in our school, I had started to hate everything around.

Occasionally even my best friends.

Because they were happy.

Silently I managed to slip on my seat at the Gryffindor table. It was time for the Christmas banquet.

And I hated it.

The noises were a thick blur in my ears. The faces unrecognizable, yet I knew them all.

I hated them all.

My expressions did not give anything out.

They once used to.

I used to be sentimental. I used to be vivid and open-minded. And I used to be vulnerable.

But not anymore.

There was no reason left to be vulnerable for.

I was allergic to dying. I would not die, even if I wanted to.

And God knows how I wanted to.

So I sat silently among my friends and listened to the blur.

So I shifted my opaque green eyes to look at the Headmaster, beaming as always.

And I hated him.

He was just one of those overly happy people who would never even recognize a painful feeling, even if it was stabbed trough their twinkling little eyes.

I smiled.

Ron's blurry voice told me I looked spooky.

I told him nothing in return.

I trailed my blank eyes across the hall and felt how an utter disgust seeped in my veins.

I noticed them all. My fellow Gryffindors.

And I hated them all.

They were so fucking happy that it really made me want to yell at their faces and ask what the fuck was wrong with them.

It was just Christmas, for the sake of Merlin's dead corpse! The only time during the year I felt totally ill.

If not counted Halloween.

Or Valentine's Day.

Or my own birthday.

Why do these obscure people need to be happy?

Sure as hell I wasn't.

And I hated myself for being so abnormal again.

I let my eyes marvel the beauty of the enormous Christmas tree beside the teachers' table. It was illuminated gold and sun, shimmering with disgusting warmness.

I thought it was rather pretty.

And I hated it.

I also noticed Professor Snape sneer at it.

I let a small smile curl over my lips again.

Again, Ron told me I looked scary.

And I hated him.

The Slytherin table was just filling up. They were always late, fashionable as they thought it was.

Distantly I allowed myself to admire their perfectly composed manner of arranging themselves. They obviously had a pecking order of some kind, unlike the other houses.

And I knew who would be the leading chanticleer.

And I hated him.

He looked up at me.

His expression was unreadable.

I know my expression was unreadable.

I suddenly wondered why he had the grace to look at some dirt like me.

Probably he thought along the same lines, as well.

But he continued watching me, with his mercury cold eyes. And I couldn't pull my own eyes away.

So I watched him.

I watched him with my eyes I knew were lifeless and solid.

With my eyes I think once used to be deep green.

He held my stare.

I held his stare.

If ever Draco Malfoy had succeeded to make me confused, this was his first real victory.

Because his face was expressionless.

Just plain expressionless.

No sneer. No hatred. No smirk. No malicious grin. No laughter. Not even a real smile.

He was just sitting still, leaning his back against the wall, watching me.

And I took the challenge.

As he would not lower his stare, so would not I.

The banquet started, and I vaguely noticed there were piles of food in front of my nose.

But I didn't lower my gaze from his silvery eyes.

I felt somebody poke me in the ribs.

I think she was Hermione.

I hated her.

I asked if she could give me a pint of butterbeer, and after a while, she placed one in my hand.

I don't know if I thanked her.

Malfoy received a similar pint from his friend Goyle. Neither did he look away from my eyes when taking it and bringing it to his lips.

How elegantly, I thought.

I was absorbing the greyness of his eyes.

Despite the numb state I was in, I felt a shiver crawl up my spine. And I saw a little smile lifting the other corner of his mouth.

Distantly, I heard Crabbe tell him he looked scary.

I lifted the corner of my mouth to a smile, as well.

Food was disappearing in front of me. But I hadn't eaten a single cherry. I had only sunk into those pools of pearly grey liquid.

And I hated it.

Why was he staring at me like that?

Why was I staring back at him like that?

But the connection between our eyes did not falter.

He raised an eyebrow. I did the same thing.

And then we returned to our normal state.

Staring expressionlessly.

I wonder if Malfoy hated all this shit, too. He didn't seem to enjoy it, for what I saw. He ignored everybody and everyone.

Ignored everybody except me.

Why didn't he ignore me? Why didn't I ignore him?

I hated myself.

The lights were turned down, in order to allow the Great Hall bathe in candlelight and under the shimmer of the Christmas tree, which was decorated with golden stars and red orbs of glass.

I distantly understood it was the time for the dance.

Some called it a Yule Ball.

I called it topmost idiocy.

The middle aisle was soon full of dancing couples. And it was disgusting. I didn't look at them.

I was looking at him.

I had nobody to dance with. And obviously, he had nobody to dance with, either.

I found myself wondering why. He was so beautiful.

And I hated that he was so beautiful.

I hated myself thinking him beautiful.

But he was.

And he was sitting there, staring deeply in my eyes.

Why did he stare at me that way?

I smiled creepily.

I saw him smile as well.

He looked scary.

I think I looked scary as well. Although now there was no Ron to tell me that.

Malfoy took another butterbeer. Or was it his fourth?

It was my fourth, at least.

And we still stared in each other's eyes.

His were diamond grey.

Mine were emerald green. I think.

I hadn't looked in my eyes in weeks.

The hall began to go empty.

I heard Hermione ask me something. I heard Ron squeeze my shoulder.

God, I hated them.

My gaze didn't waver from Malfoy's eyes. Those eyes were now gleaming with some unidentified emotion.

I felt hands pull me into a standing position. And the hands turned my face aside, forcing me to break the eye contact with the beautiful Slytherin.

Lord, I hated those hands.

Soon I found myself circled by all my Gryffindor friends. I think their expressions were worried. They dragged me out of the Great Hall, casting murderous glances at Malfoy.

I fucking hated them. Fucking hated them with my heart.

But I didn't say a thing.

I was halfway up the first stairs that led from the Entrance Hall to the upper floors when I stopped walking. Ron tried to push me forwards, his hand on my shoulder. He asked me something.

I think he wanted to know what Malfoy had done to me.

I said nothing.

Because he had done nothing.

Except shown me a world I didn't know.

A world I wanted to know.

His world.

He was unhappy.

He was drunk.

I was drunk.

And we both knew we were more sober than ever before in our lives.

I shook Ron's hand off my shoulder. I shook my head at Hermione, who looked at me worriedly.

How I hated again these best friends of mine.

They didn't understand a shit.

After six and a half years of shared dreams, worries, wishes and happiness, they really didn't understand a shit.

And I turned around.

I began to run back to the Great Hall.

I carefully opened the massive door. The Great Hall was completely silent.

There was nobody around.

Not anymore.

I let my head drop when I looked at the empty Slytherin seat where Malfoy had sat only ten minutes ago, staring at me with his intense eyes. And I felt more miserable and angry than ever before.

Why was he gone?

I hated that he was gone.

I raised my eyes and my gaze trailed off to the Christmas tree. It was now the only thing that cast soft shimmer around the room, covering every surface with velvety gold. The candles had burned till the end.

I smiled. I was burned till the end as well.

There was nothing left for me.

Nowehere.

Slowly, I walked along the middle aisle, approaching the massive fir tree. With every step I felt heavier and heavier.

And with every step, I felt I needed to go faster and faster.

And eventually, I ran.

He was there, knelt beside the Christmas tree, surrounded by a golden halo. His head was bent down, his pure white hair falling as soft tendrils along his cheeks and forehead.

I saw him only sideways.

I didn't see his eyes.

A flash of silver.

A flash of metal.

And I instantly knew there would soon be a pool of blood on the Great Hall floor.

I stumbled next to his cuddled form, watching as he trailed long cuts along his forearms.

And I felt the pain.

I felt his pain.

I crawled in front of him, stealing the knife away from his trembling hand. I held his wrists in my tight grab, squeezing them so hard that he winced.

Only then I saw he was crying.

My breaths were in danger to cling inside my chest, never getting out. There was indeed something very scary in Malfoy's appearance now.

Because Malfoy never cried.

Those silent tears drove me mad.

Falling along those angelic white cheeks, the tears drove me mad.

I reached out my hand and moved a lock of hair away from his forehead, revealing the deep grey irises. They were not expressionless anymore.

They were sad.

They were scared.

And fresh tears made the greyness turn watery blue.

"Go away, Potter."

His voice was a mere whisper. He pressed his chin to his chest, avoiding me. His warm blood was dribbling over my fingers and I instantly slipped my palms over the wounds.

He cringed.

I heard my voice wander out of my mouth.

"No."

I looked in his eyes again. The tears dropped away and revealed their ultimate silver colour.

"No, I can't go away, Malfoy."

I touched his chin with my fingers that were now red with his silently flooding blood.

He recoiled and drew himself away.

I didn't want him draw away.

"Why did you stare at me tonight, Malfoy?"

I had to ask it, when I observed his pitiful form huddled against the stony floor of the hall, shadows playing on his radiant white locks. He didn't answer except with a sob.

"Why do you want to hurt yourself, then?"

I heard my voice fail, and I broke into tears as well.

He shuddered. And I shuddered.

The Great Hall was as silent as a tomb.

I hated it.

"I want to die."

His voice was so silent that I almost didn't hear it.

I waited in horrified silence.

"And the last thing I wanted to remember was you."

He didn't look at me anymore, only whimpered as I came closer again.

"Why me?"

I had to ask it.

He returned his eyes to me, this time scowling in his usual arrogant way.

"Go away, Potter."

I hated him.

God, how I hated him.

I hated him so much that I flung myself over him, pulling him into a tight embrace, not caring a bit what he would be thinking about it.

He stiffened under my touch, but I didn't retreat.

I couldn't retreat.

His voice was angry and hissing.

"Let go of me, Scar-head."

My voice was ragged.

"Never."

He tried to wriggle away, but I held him still. He tried to bite my neck and scratch my back, but I didn't care. All I could think about was how small he felt against me.

Although I was one of the smallest seventh years at our school myself, having lived half of my life in the darkness under the stairs, he felt small against me.

And I was horrified.

After a while, his fizzing ceased to silent sobbing.

"Why do you want to die?"

I could not help myself asking. I hated myself when I was asking.

And I know he hated me for asking.

"Why would I want to live?"

He answered sarcastically, speaking against my chest.

I began to stroke his hair gently, leaving red, bloody strains over the snowy whiteness. I turned my face so that I could smell that soft hair. So that I could press my lips against his temple.

He tensed again.

But he didn't wriggle away.

I placed another kiss on his temple, and another one on his forehead.

He lay in my arms like a frightened bird, however ready to tear my eyes out if I did a single wrong movement.

And I found out that I didn't hate anymore.

I really didn't hate anymore.

I didn't hate the world. I didn't hate him. I didn't hate myself.

Instead, I suddenly found everything beautiful.

I found us beautiful.

So beautiful.

I kissed his temple again.

He was growing weaker. The blood loss was terrible. I took out my wand and detached our bodies, to get a better access to his forearms. To make some healing charms.

He looked at me oddly, but he didn't draw away.

I found he did not trust me. He did not trust me, and that's why he didn't draw away.

He expected me to do him harm.

He wanted me to do him harm.

And I did.

I leaned forwards and kissed his soft, full lips.

Those lips I had heard had made so many girls crazy with their touch.

He was so shocked that I could see the milky colour escape his face.

How could something be whiter than white? But he was.

He was, after all, Draco Malfoy.

I cast the healing spells over his arms and pocketed my wand again. Then I picked up the knife that lay on the floor, lifting the blade vertically between our faces. I saw my eyes reflect from the surface.

They were still green.

"If you do anything like this again, Malfoy..."

I started to sound patronizing.

I hated it.

How would I know the reason why he wanted to die?

What if he had a really good reason?

Hell, even I thought I had a good reason.

I decided we both had a good reason.

"If you do anything like this again, remember to take me with you."

I saw how his fine eyebrows rose with my statement. His eyes were still those wet pools of mercury, but for the first time, I could find there the sharp hue that was so typical of him.

I smiled.

I know I looked scary.

He touched lightly my scar.

He traced his ivory finger along its jagged form, fondling it, as if it were something very special for him. And he smiled.

I admit he looked scary.

He was a Death Eater, after all. He was born to make my life miserable. Hell, he was born to kill me.

But unfortunately for both of us, I was allergic to dying.

He leaned forwards, closing the distance between us. He pressed his rosy lips on my forehead and kissed my scar.

"I don't want to take you with me, Potter."

I shivered.

"Why?"

I think his smile was melancholy now.

"Because you're the only hope this fucking world has."

"So they say."

I was positive he caught the sarcasm.

"Why are you here? Have you forgotten who I am?"

He asked the question silently.

I looked in his eyes. So grey.

"I don't even know who you are, Malfoy."

He was silent.

So was I.

We sat there, holding hands. The Great Hall ceiling was snowing.

The magical flakes didn't quite reach Malfoy's hair. Or if they did, I didn't distinguish them from the whiteness anyway. He was so beautiful that it hurt me to look at him.

It hurt me to think that he might have been dead now.

I felt a weird hot feeling flood in my heart.

And I knew my hate was completely gone.

He looked down at our hands that were resting in his lap.

Then he sighed.

I loved that sigh.

"Don't tell about this to anyone, Potter."

I traced his palm with my thumb.

"I won't."

He looked up at me with thankful eyes.

I loved his eyes.

He looked back down and began to leave. I began to leave also.

We stood up, straightening our robes. They were all covered in strains of blood.

I loved his blood on me.

He was standing so close that I could smell his subtle masculine scent. Merlin, how I wanted to pull him in my arms again. And Merlin did he look fragile.

I wanted to touch him so much, but I didn't.

I was afraid that he would tear my eyes out, like a frightened eagle.

"Potter?"

His voice was muffled, and he weighed the words he was about to say next.

"Yes?"

I felt my heart shiver.

I loved that shiver.

"Do you hate me?"

I could hear from his voice that he considered his own question ridiculous.

I took a deep breath.

"No, I don't hate you."

He flinched ever so slightly, as if being told something unexpected and terrifying. Then he turned and began to study the snowing ceiling. He traced a hand across the flakes, catching none of them.

I saw his wrists were still red with blood.

Of course they were.

I walked by his side and looked at his silhouette against the darkened windows of the Great Hall. He was white, his background sombrely blue.

He was looking peaceful.

Defeated.

"You know, is there any reason for us to be living in this shitty world?"

His question was abrupt, and highly inappropriate for a son of a Death Eater, since Voldemort was constantly gaining more and more power, and he should be happy.

But he wasn't happy.

I loved when he wasn't happy.

I hated happy people.

My reply was weak, since my mind was overpowered by the sudden urge to kiss him senseless.

Yes, he was Draco Malfoy, and I wanted to kiss him senseless.

I think I was senseless myself.

"I think there is a reason."

He turned his eyes at me again.

"And what is that reason?"

I smiled shrewdly.

This night had already been weirder than weird, and it was just about to become even more so.

~the end.