Pre fic Rantings and a Sprinkle of Disclaimer: Meh. It came to me one night. I heard counting. Mwahaha. Not quite slash, more like a (insane!)Draco character piece that I inserted Harry into simply because the two have interesting interaction possibilities. Anyways, the point is that I do not own these people or situations, but one day, I will own my OWN people and my OWN situations, and who will be laughing then? (Me.)(Duh.)(Oh shut up and just read.)
PS: My good friend Ami says that fi you're going to write book fanficiton, you should try to write like the author of the book. But there's a slight problem here, I don't write like JK Rowling. I write like Jenn Young. So like Jenn Young I will write.



Countdown
Izzy Girl



"One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six..."



The halls of Hogwarts held a certain air of beauty and mystery during the midnight hours not posessed during the day. All pale moonlight, thin mists and blue shadows, it was a delicate splendour forbidden to the students under all circumstances.



Needless to say, Harry Potter was not your typical Hogwarts student. The Boy Who Lived. A celebrity at only a year old and the one generally expected to be the ends and means by which he-who-must-not-be-named was to be destroyed. And all because he had survived in the path of the words:



"Avada Kedavra"



Due to this unconcious feat, he was given quite a bit of leeway when it came to bending, and even breaking, the rules. But even he, who was on the occasion held above the other students, was catious walking the quiet halls after hours



Harry clutched the light fabric of his invisibility cloak tight around his shoulders as he shivered. There was no breeze. In fact, the halls were still as well as silent, but the boy couldn't shake the feeling that something terribly important was about to happen.



"... Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten..."



Something important... that was why he had left his bed. Why else would he be wandering about at three in the morning, bleary eyed and uneven footed and... where the hell was that damn counting coming from.



No one else seemed capable of hearing it, but Harry had been acutely aware of it for hours. Counting down from sixty and back up again. Down and up. Down and up. Repeated over and over, incesant, monotunous and ceaseless. It was the ramblings of one on the brink of insanity and in the depths of sorrow. It chilled Harry to the bone, sending uncomfortable trembles along his spine and through his body with every whispered number. The voice was also familiar. Maddingly so, though it wasn't until Harry rounded that corner that he recognized it.



"Malfoy!" Harry hissed instincitvely, but remembering that he was invisible, immidierly wished he hadn't and cursed himself accordingly.



The blonde boy's head turned sharply towards the source of the whisper and he ceased his pacing in a single fluid motion. The action rather reminded Harry of a cat, or perhaps a snake. He allowed himself a moment of dileberation and decided on the latter. Draco Malfoy was a Slytherin after all.



The soft indigo beams of moonlight did nothing for the young wizard except cause his white skin to aquire a glowing pallor and his well kept hair to take on an unusual silver sheen. The effect was almost etheral and very unsettling. There was something decidedly unright about someone being that plae. he looked... not quite ghostly, but certainly dead and almost decaying with sickly dark circles beneath his storm colored eyes.



"Potter." his thin lips curled in amusment, "It's ironic, isn't it, that it would be you of all people. You who came to me in my darkest hour." he tapped his left foot in irritation as Harry held his breath, "Well, off with it then." Malfoy narrowed his sinister eyes, "If you'll forgive the pun, Potter, you're rather transparent. I refuse to hold a conversation with someone I can't even see."



Harry was frozen stiff for more than a few moments, but, upon regaining his senses, stripped his invisibility cloak, accepting that it was useless to try and wriggle his way out of the current situation.



Malfoy's face adopted a studied expression halfway between contempt and relief as he eyed his adversary up and down. The blonde boy then crossed his arms haughtily. He was still wearing his robes, Harry noticed offhandedly.



"Potter, why are you here?" Malfoy's drawl was soft, but as if he were adressing a child.



Harry stared.



Why was he there?



"You... were counting..." he stated weakly, "For hours. It's been echoing through the school. I couldn't sleep."



"Is that it?" Malfoy snickered, "So you've come to shut me up, then?"



Harry didn't answer verbally, but folded his arms and adopted much the same stance as the Slytherin himself. He'd learnt long ago that Malfoy, when left ot his own devices, would usually dig himself his own ditch then proceed to throw himself in head first. And he'd never asked for a hand out.



Predictiably enough, Draco was none too ruffled by Harry's lack of reply. He continued, speaking aimlessly.



"Well Potter, unfortunately your efforts will have been in vain. I have a perfectly justifiable reason to be keeping track of time. Perhaps you weren't aware, but I'm counting down the mintues I have left to live."
Harry did a mental double over what Malfoy had just said, but ended up only furrowing his brow puzzeledly in the other student's direction.



Malfoy had begun pacing again.



"I've been giving it some thought, Potter, and the thin line between love and hate, that sketchy, dividing factor, it obsession. It's defined by it, you see? That's the key. I hate you Potter, I hoenstly do. i've spent so much time and energy thinking about you. Thinking about ways to make you hate me. So many nights without sleep. I'll lay there, just thinking about it. Your downfall. Your defeat... your death!" Malfoy was gesturing wildly as if he were on to something truly amazing, "Don't you see it Potter!?"



Harry, for his part, replied; "Malfoy... what the hell are you talking about!?"



Malfoy stopped mid-stride and spun on his heel. He gazed at Harry, his expression perfected, and one should suspect, practiced, condenscendation, "Oh, ut of course you wouldn't realize, Potter, now would you? There's no way your could know! You don't hate anyone. You're far too kind and noble. Far too fair-minded to hate anyone, except perhaps he-who-must-not-be-named, but even that's not the same. It doesn't burn, does it? Voldermort's not unique, you know. I could do that too, Harry, I could tear your life apart around you!"



Throughout the course of this vicious, one-sided conversation, Malfoy had managed to back Harry into a frozen, stony corner. The Boy Who Lived raised his green eyes, aware of their thin quiver. Malfoy was not a great deal taller than him, but the young Gryffindor was shrinking against the oddly shapped, sharp stone wall. Malfoy, so impassioned by his own words, eyes burning with fury and out of place in his dead face, seemed to loom above him like a forboding curse. Perhaps he was a curse.



"You're insane." Harry said solidly, surprised at the courage in his own voice.



To his surprise, Malfoy laughed, "Maybe I am... but it won't be long." he thrust his arm in the air and pulled down the cuff of his dark robe violently.



Harry gasped dramatically in a manner which reminded him of the old muggle films Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia would wtach when he was young, but there was no other noise in his repitoire that he felt appropoiate at the moment.



The glistening black skull, framed by blood, and intwined with an emerald serpent, was as much as he, and many other students, had suspected for years. It was no secret that the Malfoy's were loyal, and somewhat fanatic, Voldermort supporters, and many had begun to wonder why Dumbledore still allowed the family's heir to attend the school when it was almost certain he either was, or very soon would be a death eater.



Suspected, but never confirmed.



Malfoy was a school mate. Someone whom he worked side by side with during class, a worhty adversary in Quidditch. The insults and cruel-minded remarks had become such a constant in Harry's life that he found himself bothered if Malfoy did't bother him at least once a day. He was suddenly reminded of those few silent minutes so many years ago, Malfoy and him, Fang trodding warily between them as they trudged tight-lipped and shuddering through the depths of the Forbidden Forest. He remembered glancing over at Malfoy every few moments in curiostiy only to note that the usually composed boy was just as frightened as Harry himself. He remembered how Malfoy had fled, whimpering in terror as Voldermort's phantom body rose from the body of a dead unicorn. Harry had thought:



"So, maybe Draco Malfoy is human after all..."



It was an expected turn of events, yes, but by no means a wanted one.



There was also the argument that being alone at night in the abandoned halls of Hogwarts, backed into a corner by a Deatheater who had taken his vows to the enemy, was not the most secure of positions. Especially not when you were considered a mightly thron in the side by aforementioned enemy.


"Why are you showing me this, Malfoy?" he asked tearsly. He breifly considered tagging a threat along, 'Aren't you afraid I'll report you?', but on the whole, it seemed rather pointless. If Malfoy was afraid of that, he would've killed Harry already.



No, the Slytherin just smiled enigmatically and grabbed Harry's chin roughly in his two hands and forced their faces together. Their noses bumped and their lips were nearly touching. Malfoy was breathing hard now, and his warm breath, which smelled vaugley of an expensive sort of spiced cake. The smell reminded him of scented candled. Pumpkin and sandlewood to be exact.



"I've put my mark on you, Potter...' Malfoy murmered under his breath, bringing his lips to Harry's ears, "You're mine now, no one else's. Not even Lord Voldermort's. I will be the one who kills you one day. i will be the one to laugh and weep and dance and collapse on your grave, no one else. Do you understand that?"



Harry wondered if he would've nodded had he been able. Malfoy released his chin and backed away. His dissapated into the night far too easily. A trick of the dark arts? Or perhaps Harry wasn't paying attention?



He wondered, at least once a day over the next year, what exactly Malfoy had meant by those words:



"The thin line is obsession..."
"I hate you Potter..."
"I've put my mark on you."



Sure enough, he mysteriously "dissapeared" from school the day afterwards and rumours flew like broomsticks. It wasn't until the following summer vacation, though, would it be that someone heard from the now infamous Deatheater, Draco Malfoy.



"Fifty-nine. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven. Fifty-six..."



Harry never would've expected it. He had heard counting earlier that night and it sent such violent chills through his body that he had dropped a glass, spilling bright red tomato juice across the Dursley's new kitchen floor. He had been reprimended and forced to clean the mess at least ten times more than was necessary, but he didn't care. The tomato juice looked too much like blood, he reflected, spilt raw across the dusty floor tiles. Blood only made him think of death, and the symbol of the Deatheaters, which invairbaly led to thoughts of Draco Malfoy and his counting, which led him back to the point where the problem had begun in the first place.



That night, he crept barefoot with a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders and wand tucked into the elastic of his pajamas (just in case), on a journey to the kitched to fetch himself a glass of water.
"Harry Potter." The familiar voice stopped him dead in his tracks. He was glad he hadn't yet retrieved himself a glass from the cupboard.



At least he wasn't counting.



Slowly, Harry turned to see Draco Malfoy, seated casually on the Dursley's couch, elbows resting on knees and dark wand dangling lazily between spread legs. He gave Harry a long suffering grin before rising. Harry found himself backed into the stairwell and fumbling like mad, yet still indiscreetly, for his wand.
Malfoy glanced at the tiny door etched into the stairs. It rested on rusty hinges, "So this is where the famous Harry Potter made his beginnings?" he was sneering, "How fitting."



Harry didn't answer. He now had a firm grip on his wand and feeling a lot more confident about himself. Had he been defenseless, he may of engaged in idle banter, simly to gain time. At that point, though, he was feeling bold.



"Why don't you just kill me?"



Malfoy's face fell. His mouth tipped into a frown and his eyes widened as if the thought had never once crossed his mind and he realized now what an idiot he had been. Encouraged by this, Harry continued.
"And why didn't you just kill me the night you left."



Silence.



And somewhat quiter: "The night you were counting."



There was a reaction to this. Malfoy smiled, albeit somewhat bitterly. A bitter, sad smile that seemed so out of place on his sharp, snake-like features, duplitiously high cheekbones and dishonest eyes. "I've been counting since I met you..." he muttered sourly, "The minutes until I die, Potter. Get on with it."
Harry was confused until he heard the clatter of wood on wood. He looked down. Malfoy's hand was open, and his wand was on the floor, gently lolling from side to side. The Boy Who Lived glanced up at the former Slytherin curtly and met his gray eyes.



Those eyes, they gave away nothing. The rest of the face had righted itself. Superior smirk, straight eyebrows. No trace of sadness or defeat. He said, in a voice smooth as silk, "I said 'get on with it Potter', or are you deaf as well as stupid. Kill me, or I will be forced to destroy you life as I once promised." He levelled his gaze and said with surprising eveness, "It's either me or you. We can't both live. And we both know that it's going to be you in the end anyways, so let's just spare oursleves needless amounts of drama. Now kill me before I am forced to slay those disgusting muggles upstairs."



Very abruptly, Harry remembered the Dursleys. Icy tendrils wrapped themselves around his stomach and began to squeeze, liquid worry burning his stomach lining and threading it's way through his entire body.



"You wouldn't."



"Do as I ask."



To the casual observer, it would seem like a simple choice. Kill your enemy. Save your family. But Harry knew better than most that things were not always so black and white when he was involved. The Dursley's may have been the lesser of two evils (though not by a great extent), but either way, Harry would have blood on his hands, either directly or indirectly. Therein layed the choice.



"So maybe Draco Malfoy is human after all..."



Shaking uncontrollably, Harry raised his wand. The blanket he had been clinging to fell in folds around his pale feet.



"So maybe Draco Malfoy is human after all..."



Unsteady wand tip pressed against black robes. One set of eyes smiled, the other began to cry.



"So maybe Draco Malfoy is human after all..."



Slowly whispered words, a jolt, a cry, a gasp of relief and then the heavy thump of a dead body as it hit the floor.



"Avada Kedavra."



There was one memory, long forgotten and buried in Harry's memory as irrelevant, but now relieved as he leaned gasping for breath and sobbing against the peeling paint of the stairwell he once slept under. Draco Malfoy's dead body was sprawled out in front of him, though somehow, the former Slytherin had even managed to make dying seem an act of grace. It was perhaps second year. Or third. It was all running together now, but they had been young. younger, at least.



Malfoy was standing outside in the rain, staring up at the angry, gray sky as if challenging it. The color of the sky that day was a perfect match for his eyes.
Harry had caught the offhand glance at him from behind the thick, blurry glass of the library window. He had stared for a moment in confusion, then leaned over the edge of his thick Potions book and lowered his voice carefully.



"Ron? Hermione? Is that Malfoy standing out there in the rain?"



They snapped their heads, in unison, Harry remembered, towards the window so quickly that Ron's neck had made a cracking noise. Hermione spent exactly three point eight seconds studying the thin, pale figure admist the storm before cocking a dark eyebrow and saying: "That's Malfoy alright, but as to what he's going out there, I'm drawing a blank."



Ron had snorted in disgust and was only too glad to look away, "He's a bloody git, that's what." he commented, digging his nose back into Hermione's transfiguration notes, "I hope he catches his death in a cold!"



"Ron!" Hermione yelped, shooting the freckled red-head daggers from across the studying table. She believed in fairness and forgiveness. For everyone. And sometimes, she even included Malfoy in her definition of everyone.



Whatever else was said, Harry had drowned it out. He glanced back out the window and this time, Draco was laughing.



"Six. Five. Four. Three. Two..."








In the moonlight
Fighting with the night
It's a rip off
Kissing all the slain
I'm bleeding in the rain
It's a rip off
Such a rip off





t h e . e n d



Post Fic Thoughts: Considering it's a first, I kinda liked how this one turned out (except it got ridiculously melodramatic at the end there *cough*). I'm just trying to get a feel for it. To see if this is possibly going to be something I can write for...
In case anyone is wondering, those few lyrics at the end there, those are from a song called Rip-Off by a British Glam Rock group (in fact, the ORIGINAL Glam Rock group) T-Rex. All worship.
Well, it's 3:03AM and I think that I've done my duty!
Audieu Boys and Girls!
Jenn Sparky Young aka Izzy Girl
cephied_variable@evangelion.com