Hullo Gentle Readers!

I'm back!

Modem's broke, so on and so forth. Now, I took alot of thought into how i was gonna end this and well..oh, just go ahead and read and you'll know first hand. NOW STOP HARRASSING ME::goes back into the dark shack he's been hiding in:
Enjoy!


Draco Malfoy knew he was in trouble the moment he started to write poetry. How did he know this was a bad thing? Well simple; Malfoys never write poetry. NEVER. Especially not heart-gushing, soul-baring, gag-me-with-a-wand-cause-i'm-going-to-die-anyway-when-Potter-reads-this love poetry.But it was necessary. Draco's mind was whirrling in dangerous circles and he couldn't see straight. He was nauesous all the time, his legs felt weak and he couldn't think clearly. It felt as if he were on some sort of muggle carousel and he could never get off the damn thing.

So here he was, three in the morning, writing blasted poetry that seemed to be going nowhere. A snort came from somewhere behind him and his stomach plummeted. Pansy had decided to sneak into his bed earlier in the evening and he didn't have the strength to topple her out. So there she stayed after they had shagged mindlessly and there she slept right this second, making Draco want to vomit all over the dozens of crumpled bits of parchment littered across his desk. Sinking his head into his hands, the blond stared unseeingly at the lavish scribbles of ink that never formed the right words.

Probably because there were none. There was nothing he could possibly say to express exactly what was in his very soul this moment. There were no words for the countless nights he'd spent unsleeping since that incident in the hallway. It had been more or less a month, and every second had been agonizing. Harry looked just as beautiful as he had on that dark night, the stars in his eyes and the moon in his hair. Everytime Draco passed him in the hallways, he lost his breath but never dared approach the boy again.

He'd heard that Harry had settled down with Cho Chang after the rumors he'd spread. He didn't start those rumors for himself...He knew Harry deserved to be happy and Chang would atleast try. Chang was a good distraction for the Gryffindor and anything that gave Draco an incentive to NOT go dragging the brunette into the nearest broom closet and shagging him senseless admist promises of eternal love and devotion was a good thing. A needed thing...A painful thing.

Lucius made it perfectly clear that he would simply NOT tolerate Draco not producing an heir. The man himself had snuffed out a relationship with a boy in his Hogwarts day because of the obligations on the Malfoy name.

But was it worth it? To live a lie with someone he didn't ...love...Was love even the word?

All the pain, all the aching, all the agony from being apart from Harry's perfect golden skin, flushed pink lips and strong calloused fingers, seemed to be too much to bare...but was that love? Was all this longing really LOVE?

A spark ignited behind silver eyes and pale fingers deftly snatched the eagle feather quill from its perch and started to furiously scribble.

And as tiny droplets pitter-pattered across the parchment, Draco Malfoy finally felt his heart split open and the right words came.

- - - - -

Harry came traisping down the slope that circled the castle grounds, heading towards the pitch for the quidditch match against the Slytherins. He hadn't exactly been looking forward to this event, but it was inevitable. Gryffindor had to play them. So Harry would suck it up for the sake of the team or face Angelina's psycho rants. She could be quite scary when she wanted to be.

So, slinging his Firebolt over his shoulder, Harry trudged the long path towards the tall gates that enclosed the pitch. That was when it hit him. Literally. A small piece of parchment all but slapped him in the face as it danced round his head in the afternoon breeze.

Startled, Harry smoothely caught the parchment in his hand before it could make a third attempt at his eye and stared at the paper oddly. How on earth...?

Suddenly something caught his eye. It looked as if there were something written on the thing. Unfolding it, Harry was surprised to see it was a prose of sorts. But what surprised him more than anything were the random blotches where words were blotted out by what looked to be water droplets.

Was it written in the rain? Well, it hadn't rained in over a month. Not since-

Harry blinked back the thought and continued on his way, holding the parchment in his hand still. Who could have written this? The handwriting didn't look familiar, but then again, he didnt go around watching people write over their shoulders.

A frown on his face, Harry finally found himself in the changing rooms, his team mates impatiently waiting for him.

The pep talk Angelina gave was a blur to him as his thoughts seemed consumed by the mysterious person writing poetry in the rain. Was it a he or she? The writing looked a bit masculine, very distinguished, almost refined, as if the person took great care in each word. Perhaps was it the words he was writing that moved him to write so well or was that the way he always wrote?

Was he inlove with the person who was meant to receive this poem? He must've been to have kept it secret for over a month. Were they together already? Were they happy?

A shrill whistle caught Harry's attention and he was shocked to find himself in the middle of the pitch, his team and the Slytherins gathered round Madame Hooch. He must've been too deep in thought to realize that they had walked out already and were now waiting for the game to begin.

Harry quickly took his place, pocketing the poem as he mounted his Firebolt. His eyes couldn't help but seek out a familiar mop of white-blond and was not let down as green met grey.

A shiver ran up his spine at the look Malfoy was giving him. Well. It couldn't be defined as a look, persay, because Malfoy looked as if he wasn't looking at anything in particular. Harry just happened to be standing in the way of whatever direction the Slytherin's eyes were pointed.

It made him sick, really, to imagine nothing but empty coldness inside that blond head.

Before he knew it, the game had begun and he was up in the windy sky. His head a bit clearer, Harry sat atop his broom as he watched from high above, his eyes absently on the look out for a glint of gold. When a good ten minutes of searching turned up fruitless, Harry's mind inevitably wandered back to the parchment stuffed in his pocket.

His fingers dug it out and spread it open, careful to keep a good hold on it since the wind was starting to pick up.

His eyes darted over the paper, noting the care the poet took in writing what simply had to be a heart-wrenching verse. Licking his dry lips, Harry began reading.

"Kill me under the moonlight..."

Suddenly something struck his cheek. Looking up, Harry was shocked to realize that the sky had darkened to a dangerous murky grey and thunder sounded not too far in the distance. For reasons unknown, Harry began reading with anxious fervor.

"Kill me under the moonlight/Let me become beautiful..."

Lightning struck, causing the crowd to gasp and shriek collectively and Harry's concentration to waiver. He felt more than saw a certain Slytherin seeker come to a stop somewhere below his right foot, but he paid him no mind. Rain droplets started to fall with piercing accuracy and Harry was horrified to see that they were hitting the poem in his hand and causing more and more words to blotch and distort.

Now feeling he simply HAD to know what the poem said before the rain washed the words all away, Harry blocked out everything; the match, the quickly developing storm, Draco...

"Kill me under the moonlight.
Let me become beautiful.
A pale ethereal angel.
As I die.
As I float away.
The crimson trickling from dusk lips, a shimmery magic.
The dark sea laps at my face and swallows me whole.
It is blackness that kisses the faded sky.
Yet I see so clear.
I am warm beneath the witch's torch.
I am beautiful.
I am perfect.
As you kill me beneath the moonlight."

Harry's lips parted as tears mixed with rain. Suddenly a bludger caught the front of his broom and sent him toppling sideways. Unable to right himself in time, Harry felt his heart leap into his throat as his wet fingers slipped from the broom and he slowly plummeted towards the ground. He watched as the words of the poem spread across his vision until all he saw was a boy sitting beneath a full moon, his fingers scrawling in beautiful letters the secrets of his heart. He should have pale fingers. And gold-spun hair should fall over hooded grey eyes. He should be guarded and cold, but scared. His skin should feel like rose petals and his lips like cherries. He should be able to tear a person to shreds in a handful of words but put them back together with just three. He should be perfect. He should be beautiful.

Harry felt hands on the back of his robes before he was swept into someone's lap. His heart still somewhere in the twenty feet he managed to drop and his mind still with the boy under the moon, his mind barely registered that someone had indeed saved him. But he didn't care. He would've rathered hit the ground and accepted unconsciousness than this horrible pain lacerating his insides. Strong warm arms wrapped round him, soft lips cooing words of comfort in his ear. Harry curled up into the body, throwing his arms round his rescuer's neck, his face sobbing into wet Quidditch robes.

A hand ran up and down his back, cradling him, as the words ebbed away into gentle incoherent murmurs.

Why was he falling apart like this? It wasn't as if he'd never fallen off his broom before.

But the poem...and the storm...and the blond boy in his head...It was too much for him. Flashes of skin from a memory long ago kept berating his fraying sanity and he knew he couldn't take much more of this. How deep in his heart did he wish those words, those beautiful words, came from-

"Kill me beneath the moonlight..."

Harry's eyes slowly slid open and his vision was blotted out by blond. Very wet blond. His lips were pressed against pale skin and the robes to which he was clutching were a deep emerald. A gasp escaped his throat as the realization slowly began worming its way into his head, but he didn't dare believe. If he just stayed like this, he could continue to think he saw blond and porcelain and green. He could just pretend, like he had been the past month.

But as the hands moved to pull Harry away and force him to face the truth, Harry could no longer pretend.

Draco Malfoy stared back at him with as much intensity as that night when it rained just like this and Harry lost his breath. Soon the words Draco had spoken trickled their way back into the Gryffindor's bewildered mind.

"Let me become beautiful."

Slender fingers danced down Harry's cheek and he found himself leaning into the touch.

"A pale ethereal angel.
As I die.
As I float away."

Harry fisted emerald robes tighter in his grip as the wind whipped round them with a vengence. Nothing was breaking him from this boy's grip, not even God himself.

"The crimson trickling from dusk lips, a shimmery magic.
The dark sea laps at my face and swallows me whole."

Draco's lips were on Harry's neck, moving to form words he knew only too well.

"It is blackness that kisses the faded sky.
Yet I see so clear.
I am warm beneath the witch's torch."

Harry dared not close his eyes, even though he'd long ago lost his glasses and the protection from the rain they served.

"I am beautiful."

A kiss.

"I am perfect."

A nuzzle.

"As you kill me beneath the moonlight."

And Harry's lips were upon Draco's before the last breath of the word was fully out of the blond's mouth. He didn't care if people saw. He didn't care if he broke Cho's heart. He didn't care about the media's field day on this or Draco losing his inheritance or losing his friends' respect or anything else. And from the desperate way Draco was kissing him back, his hands tangled in soaked ebony locks, Harry very much doubted he cared much either.

Words didn't need to be spoken anymore. It had all been said.

Though Draco mumbled apologies and Harry whimpered words of love, it didn't matter what was said or if it made sense. Everyone saw. Everyone now knew.

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy would have rather died than live without eachother;to live without their sin.