Pre Fic Rantings and a Sprinkle of Disclaimer: H/D slash is one of those pairings that once you read a bit of it, you're drawn in and can't go back to anything else. It's got all the makings of an absolutely excellent fan pairing... meaning it's twisted as hell.
This is my pathetic attempt at writing the Harry/Draco dynamic in a different sort of light. It's 1st person/2nd person, in the form of someone having a one sided conversation. Draco's POV.
Also, this is a songfic of sorts (haven't written one in a while). The lyrics are entwined seeing as this fic was inspired by repeatative listening to the song while reading HP fanfiction. The song, as the title of the fic suggests, is called: "Ice" by Sarah Maclaughlin. It's off "Fumbling Towards Ecstacy" and a majorly kick ass song (not to mention album)...
I don't own Harry Potter (gee, I hope I don't at least... if I do, what am I doing sitting here writing fanfiction? *becomes mildly frantic*)










Ice
Izzy Girl



'The ice is thin
Come on, dive in
Underneath my lucid skin
The cold is lost; forgotten
Hours pass, days pass
Time stands still
Light gets dark and
Darkness fills my secret
Heart forbidden...'











I always loved the contrast to tell the truth. Seldom was it in those days that I could notice that sickly pallor of my ashen skin without wondering about it's equally striking negative.

Sometimes, I would wonder if you bled a different color than I. Occasionally, I wondered if I was just the one bleeding incorrectly

"Why do you hate me?" you asked once.

I shrugged nochalantly. You thought I wasn't listening, didn't you? But it was all a clever act. You never could understand why I wouldn't bring myself to seem too interested in you.

"I don't hate... well, I don't hate everything about you..."

I was surprised at the velocity with which those words caused your gaze to whip upwards to stare disoncertingly at me.

"What don't you hate?"

I studied you carefully, if inconspicuously.

"You eyes." I noted in an offhand manner.

"Really?"

"Yes. Really." I sighed dramatically, "They're actually quite bright, Makes it seem as if there's actually some sort of conciousness beneath that idiotic, lopsided grin of your's the girls all seem to find so charming... very deceptive, those eyes are."

I grinned. You grimaced. I laughed.

Rewind and repeat, please.

It was always the same with us, wasn't it? Similar scenario, identical dialouge, the occasional changing scenery. A never ending tradgedy of the grandest sort... funny, how our secret meetings always reminded me of late autumn.

I was absolutely fascinated by the sights of my white hand stark against your broad, tanned shoulders, chest, your neck.

Isn't it interesting that I, fair-haired and creamy-skinned, held internal dakrness within my melanchony gray eyes, and you, of raven hair and a complexion made to resemble midnight, were so pure and bright beneath those sparkling eyes the color of Slytherin house...

Always with the heroics, Wonderboy. Didn't you ever tire of it?

(Of course, why else would someone like you ever be here with someone like me?)

So entracing was that night...

Layers of thick, glistering white snow against a pitch black sky. There were no starts, only blue moonlight.

My breath was visiable. Delicate, icy clouds that mingled beautifully with yours, we were so close, before fading into the clear, night air.

You would never refuse a challenge, especially not one from me. An empty Quidditch pitch and nine bludgers.

Still only one Snitch.

And of course you caught it as I plummeted from my broom in defeat.

Even in the night, even in my element, that of darkness, you still managed to best me.

For once, I didn't stress over what to tell Father ("Losing? Well, that's just not something that Malfoys do..."), but instead, concentrated on the way our steps fell in time, crunching softly in the ice-layered, mid-winter snow. I focused on the way you dealt with an awkward situation by fiddling. You tugged at the hems of your cloak and ran your grimy fingers incessantly through your eternally hopeless hair situation.

You're a master at nervous mannerisms, I'm sure you're not aware of it.

You dislike silence, it occurred to me then. I noted this information, and used it avidly in the future to cause you misery when the chance arose.

Walking quietly that night; you, frightened at being caught outside after hours; me, bitter, defeated and contemplative; was the second time in our somewhat tumoltuous years at Hogwarts that we were ever alone. Our second awkward silence.

First year. Detention. Forbidden Forest. The Weasel yelled and glared, but you, as always, were characteristically stotic.

Hand steady on Fang's neck, I saw you inhale, shivering, mentally bracing yourself for whatever verbal abuse I was about to throw in your direction.

I said nothing.

Neither did you.

There was simply nothing to say.

The heated rivialry fueled by mutual dislike was more a public face than anything. In private, you didn't care enough to make an issue of it, and I didn't care enough to provoke you with no audience present.

You were tensed, at first, as if the tenative, unspoken truce we had unwittingly formed was about to burst at any moment. You pointedly ignored me, petting Fang, or staring off into the woods and away from me.

I, on the other hand, was unecessarily acute of your every movement. I wrapped my arms around myself and made an admirable effort to keep from making any physical contact with you as the path narrowed and grew misted over.

Our cloaks swished mesmerisingly, and brushed against each other.

I breathed deep and sharp. To this day, I am still not certain if I was repulsed, or excited.

Four years later, we walked a different path in a similar silence.

What did I say? Rewind, repeat, it's always the same.

I felt a great need to mentally imprint events such as the angle of your glasses on the bridge of your nose, and the rough cut of your untailored robe, hanging dopishly past your fingertips.

You stopped and looked worriedly at the sky as a bell tolled past-midnight.

"It's late." As the words fell from your mouth, I stole a moment, stole an oppurtunity, to fold your arms behind you and pin you, back against a tree.

You trembled.

It wasn't desire, per say, that drove my actions. Don't be getting any delusions of grandeur just because Draco Malfoy decided that he would fancy to snog you senseless one January evening.

No, I was drive by an insatiable curiosity. Not that you're a terribly complicated person. I was always the enigma, after all.

Your simplicity; simple, unthinking purity of the heart, was a puzzle in itself.

"You're a fascinating induvidual, Harry Potter." I whispered, before closing my mouth over yours, despite weak, mumbled protest.

I turned you over, folded you in, out and inside out, I took you apart and pieced you back together a few times, now that I think about it, but the image never seemed complete... never seemed as if it fit properally.

"Why do you hate me?"

Well, I had good reason. You destroyed me, and never did it hit me harder than those precious, desperation-soaked moments when our lips touched clumsily, fire tearing violently through what would be a tender kiss, if not for the unresolved animosity spoken along the rivets in our lips.










'The only comfort is the moving of the river
You enter into me
I lie upon your lips
Give what you can
I'll take all that I can get
Only a fool's here to stay...'










"Don't you dare fall in love with me..." I murmered lazily, lips pressed against your collar bone.

"What makes you say that?"

I stiffened and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. Funny how those abandoned rooms were so easy to find in morning's dwindling hours, despite a Proffesor's claim to knowing everything about our going-ons.

Or you and I were just used to breaking the rules.

"Well, it's really all the better for you that I warn you, you know. I lie. I cheat. I whine and cry and manipulate." a sigh, "It's for your own good, Potter. You know very well I'm in this for carnal purposes only. I'm using you."

Another sigh, this time from you.

"Of course," Your voice was coarse and bitter. it stung, "Just for kicks, eh Malfoy?"

We didn't even use first names...

(Why would we need to? We barely spoke, as it was. There was no sense of verbal intimacy. We assume that physical sort of communication, not realizing the inherent dangers. So passionate. Supposedly impersonal. Safe.)

"I certainly don't love you."

I lie.




We were up in the Tower that night. Cool, dark air swept around us, ruffled your hair and simply irritated me. I heard your gasp and moan on the wind, though we sat there, back to back, clutching our robes tight and trying to ignore the tendrils of moonlight weaving themselves in between the shadows, vaugley reminding us of each other.

Never light and dark, rather light and shadow.

"You're not like darkness, y'know. You're not nearly as evil as you would like to think."

"Shut up."

I never understood the actual depth of our silent, unwanted intimacy.

I dislike the idea of othes figuring me out. Don't you know my image is dependent on my air of exotic mystery? It gives me a right to claim my Malfoy arrogance. Why do you think I never take notes in cursive? Why i never let you speak? Why I never answer?

Unconciously, your fingers (mishappen; knobby; work calloused) brushed mine (thin; graceful; soft) and you felt that it gave you a right to talk.

"Draco... I..."

You never called me by my frist name. At least not before.

I stood, and without saying anything, pulled the arm of my cloak to my elbow, exposing the glistening mark of a Death Eater.

Imagine that. And I was only 16.

I could hear my own words rebounding off your echoing thoughts.

'Don't you dare fall in love with me...'

You attempted a weak smile, but only succeeded in looking sick to your stomach. Then, you kissed me.

'Well,' I mused, 'Wasn't that interesting...'




"If it comes down to it, I would kill you."

"I wouldn't."

"Then you're a fool, Harry."

"Harry, is it? When did I earn the honor of being addressed by my given name?"

"Sod off, Potter."

"At least I'm not a bastard..."

"You're an idiot, though. I'll keep my wretchedness, thank you very much."

You kissed me again, and for a moment, I almost thought that I was lying again. I had caught myself so in my own web. Even now, i have difficulty in deciding whether I'm telling the truth or not.

I watched you as you kissed me, eyes half opened regarded yours, drooped closed with the weight of passion.

I began to wonder why the words 'I Love You' and 'Avada Kedavra' had become so intertwined.

Kiss and kill me sweetly.

(Hate and love... isn't it all just the same, twisted obsession, or am I just deranged?)

"I love you." You said in that ridiculous, Gryffindor-learned heroic tone of classical, romantic poportions that only someone like you (read:hero) could possibly manage.

I laughed. A harsh, maniacal laugh that only a far-gone and villanious Slytherin Death Eater such as myself could realistically produce.

Classic hero and villian? Light and dark... sorry, I meant shadow? I was created by fate to be your antithesis, Wonderboy. Don't think I never got tired of it.

(Of course, why else would someone like me ever be here with someone like you?)

I wonder, were we really an epic story of good versus evil (albeit, gone wrong?), or just another Harlequin romance.

"You're a bloody git. You are perhaps the dimmest induvidual I have had the pleasure to chance upon in my short life. Would you like to repeat that? You LOVE me?" I hmmed and rocked back on my heels, leaning my back against the breeze-cooled wall and allowed my shoulder to touch your wrist, "I warned you. You'll be damned sorry once I'm finished with you, Harry Potter. I'll be the death of you yet." I snickered and allowed my voice to drop, "You should've though twice about selling your heart to someone who's soul belongs to your enemy." I brandished my fore arm as if it were a weapon.

You were for the most part unimpressed, if not amused. You wrapped your arms around me. It was a tender, loving sort of action that I was neither accostomed to, nor comfortable with.

I unconciously (unwillingly) sighed against your chest. Seldom did I let our bodies touch. Even during our darkened rendevous where our breath mingled and our lips melded, hips rocking together to the same, silent tune, I kept both palms flat, planted on either side of your head, holding me above you, away from you. I hated the way my body shivered at the sound of your heart beat. That sound only accomplished to remind me that one day, I'd have to rip that beating heart from your chest and personally deliver it to Voldemort.

("My Lord. The heart of Harry Potter."
"Excellent work, Malfoy! You shall be honored among Death Eaters as a hero."
And I will try not to grimace. All I'll want is the warm rythym of that heart, alive again, echoing dimly in my body as I stare at your dark face. A frozen, breathing image lost in my memories, that's all you'll be, Wonderboy.)

"If you were smart, you would kill me."

I'm not sure if you heard.

"I'm going to save you."

I blinked and processed the thought. I almost believed you, "That's interesting Potter. You do that." I sniffed, aware of how stiff and chilling my body must have felt in your arms. I was ice, and that was unfair to you I realize.








'I think you worried for me then
The subtle way that I'd give in
Well I know
You like the show
Tied down to this bed of shame
You tried to move around the pain
But your soul was anchored'








The real problem was that you were heavy on physical communication. A man of few words and many body gestures. I didn't respond well to this sort of conversation, but still proceeded to read you through your touch.

I work better with words. I weave and dance my tounge to the sweet sound and nuances of the english language.

You never knew me. I never talked.

What right did you have? telling me that you loved me!? Who did you think you were fooling, Harry? I was the one hopelessly infatuated! You were just along for the ride!

"I love you..." you murmered into my flesh as if you meant something by it. My tie was undone and I watched you carefully begin to undo the latch of my school robe.

Cho had broken up with you that morning. Very loudly, very publicly. Over breakfast, in fact.

The entire school was witness to the whole fiasco, but they only heard half the story. I read in between the lines, with a sick sort of guilt. She knew, of course. She was a smart girl, a Ravenclaw, afterall. In fact, she dropped a few choice glares unmistakably in my direction.

That would've been a story book wedding, Potter, surely.

You'd loved her since second year. You won her during fifth year. Then I came along and kissed you.

Oh, then it got complicated.

It didn't have to, you know, but you seem to know nothing of subtly. It's very easy to be in a relationship and screwing someone else on the side, even if you happen to be The Boy Who Lived.

You should've know better than to start dividing your "I love you"s. You should've had the common sense not to leave the distinctive scent of my colonge wafting through your robes ("Well, that's quite obvious, Cho. If he smells like that, it's no girl he's been snogging... it's Draco Malfoy!" Pansy seemed to find the situation amusing and nothing more. Slytherins are very non-intrusive in that sense. Of course they all knew. Not like they cared when I stumbled into the dormitories at four in the morning, smelling of night air and what must have been Gryffindor common-room). It doesn't take a genius, Potter, to figure out we had to keep up apperances. Don't give me that pout-lipped puppy dog frown everytime I purposefully trip you and your armful of books down the stairs. You were just as adamant as me about keeping it all a secret.

Do they not teach Gryffindors how to lie? What use are all your righteous world saving techniques if you can't even stretch the truth to save your tail?

"I love you..."

"No you don't..." I muttered. You pulled away and I sat up, buttoning my shirt.

"Draco, what..."

"Don't use my first name, Potter. You don't love me."

You were hurt. You adjusted your glasses and stared at me quietly. You waited for me to continue, but all I could do was glare. You finally broke down and shattered the deadly silence.

"Draco, what are you..." you hadn't even formed a full sentence, but your words only served to further enrage me. I grabbed your shoulders and slammed you against the wall. There was no passion in my movements, only anger. You sensed this, and your eyes filled with fear.

Our noses were nearly touching. Your breath was short and mine deep. We stared each other down for a few moments and I was overwhelmed by a nostalgia from a time when my only intentions when having you back against the wall laid in seeing how many bones I could break before a teacher noticed what was happening.

"You don't even know me, Potter." I hissed, "You don't have a bloody clue who the hell I am! See the Dark Mark on my arm? I follow Voldemort! There's nothing wrong with sleeping with the enemy, but you don't need to be romancing him also." I caught my breath and continued, "You're in love with the struggle between good and evil. It excites you that I may one day decide to break our kiss with my wand nudged in between us and the words 'Avada Kedavra'. It excites you that maybe some of my darkness will rub off on you. You're flirting with the dark side when you make love to me, and that's all you care about! Goddamnit, Harry, you're not even subtle about it! Going about trying to tell me I'm not as evil as I think I am? Saying you're going to save me? It's a bloody joke! You're far too lost in that tragic hero image of yours to even pay attention! I'm a human being, not some shadowy, villanious element of your character! I'm not a lost cause for you to take on! I am Draco Malfoy, and I think that mudbloods shouldn't be allowed in to Hogwarts. I wish to see all muggles burnt and teachers I don't like expelled. I've been on a broom since I could walk and my father taught me the Forbidden curses when I was nine years old. I used to use them on Mother's doves in the garden after dinner, then watch the sunset. I don't sleep well, I'm plauged by nightmares, but it doesn't matter since I've always liked night better. I use a spell to hide the bags beneath my eyes. I'm vain and spoiled and rich. I like classical music and History text books. I absolutely love the color of your eyes..."

"How could I ever know!? You never tried to tell me!"

I tired of speaking, so I slapped you, hard and red, across your left cheek.

"I tried." (Did I?) "You... couldn't..." (What was I trying to say?).

We were both panting, both on the edge of tears. I'm sure you were expecting some sort of grand apology (from either of us, it doesn't matter) then I would collapse into your arms, sobbing, and reveal every last detail of my life and phsyce to you out of the pure power of love.

Or maybe you weren't. I could never quite tell what you though of me.

My body was trembling. I hastily removed my hands from your shoulders, realizing only then how hand I had been pressing. You rubbed your arms and nursed your cheek as you watched me leave.

I sat out at the edge of the lake later on, gazing into the murky water. It was black, like death, or perhaps the color of your hair.

No, it was definitely the color of my soul.

I heard footsteps behind me. I didn't even have to ask who it was. I gave no acknowledgement that I had heard you, so you came and sat beside me.

"So, talk..."

I was silent. Shadows slid across the water and I imagined them to be monsters, waiting for the right moment to spring and end my misery.

You tried again.

"I was planning to leave Cho anyways... I... I had to make a choice..."

That wasn't at all what I was upset about, you idiot.

Even so, I accepted the warming pressure of your bony fingers on my slim wasit.

"Wrong choice, Wonderboy..." I mumbled into your shoulder.










'I don't like your tragic sighs
As if your God has passed you by
Well, hey fool, that's your deception
Your angels speak with jilted tounges
The serpent's tail has come undone
You have no strength to squander









Ah, and so here we are again.

The war isn't over, but the trials have started already. I'm no fool, Harry, I know that I'm going to rot in Azkahban for the rest of my natural life (and most likely beyond). Don't try to dumb it down to me as you pace nervously across the cell, chewing your fingernails desperately (I'd have imagined you'd grown out of hat silly habit by the age of twenty-three. Most do).

"I still want to save you, Draco..."

I scoff, "Empty promises, Potter. I think we're both mature enough to realize that I might as well be receiving a Dementor's kiss tommorow... if all goes as planned of course."

I smile wryly, and you frown.

"Draco... must you?"

"Yes."

You sigh and stare at me sternly, "Do you... want to die?" you're voice is quivering, Potter. What's wrong? Are you really that concerned?

I doubt it. Simply doing your usual heroic duty, I assume.

"Well, I think what I want is irrelevant at this point. I slaughtered muggles... hundreds of them. Can't say even I enjoyed it after a certain point..."

"Draco..." your frown deepened and a shadow fell across your face.

"What's wrong? You aren't going to try to convince me that I didn't really mean everything I did, are you? Please, that would be emabrassing for both of us. I had to put up with you trying to define me unsucsessfully during our school years." I shift beneath my magical bonds, "You're going to have to face it someday, Potter, and learn from this that it's not exactly useful to fall in love with a Death Eater."

"Draco, stop it." You're making fists now, not angry fists, but fustrated fists, "Draco, what is it that you want?"

I pause and look contemplative.

"Do you have your wand on you, per chance, Potter?"

You glance up at me with a sickened expression spread below your impossibly furrowed brow. I greedily suck in the image of your glistening, emerald eyes. Like grass and mnuggle traffic lights. Precious jewels and snake's skin. It's not difficult to rememeber a time when those eyes burnt only for me, whether in hate or passion.

You nod heavily and pull the thin, wooden column from beneath the hem of your cloak.

Oak and Pheonix Feather.

The sister of Voldemort's wand.

Ah, irony is sweet, isn't it Harry?

You approach slowly. I can almost feel hours tick by with every step you take.

"Don't make me do this..." you plead.

"It's all for the better." I assured, "Just say the words... you know them. You've used them before, I know you have. Come on... Avada Kedavra, Harry."













fin.
















Post Fic Reflection: Whoa... I swear to everything and anything that I did NOT mean to have two fics in a row where Draco pleaded with Harry to kill him. I think Countdown was meant to be I C E, but it never exactly worked out... erm... yeah. Anyways, *cough* Moving on...

*sincerely
Jenn "Sparky" Young aka Izzy Girl