Eyes of Phthalo Green - DRARRY

Chapter 4 - The Encounter

Draco squinted awake, flinching away from the shaft of green light that pierced his eyes. Groggily, he cast a Tempus. It was already 6:34; he really needed to set up his alarm. Draco's feet shuffled on the wooden floor, looking for his slippers. Unsuccessful, he got out of bed, at least trying to before a powerful wave of vertigo sent him reeling back onto the mattress. This was always Draco's least favorite part of the school year; only a month in and Draco was both fed up with schoolwork and horribly disorganized. His schedule was, if possible, even worse than last year's had been. He had History of Magic with the Ravenclaws (the only house that actually cared about any of the rot Professor Binns was so fond of spewing), Potions with the Gryffindors, and a desperate wish to resign from the quidditch team. He'd been eating less, skiving of breakfast, sometimes lunch, to do homework, then using his evenings to paint or experiment. He had also taken up Alchemy in third year and, though he enjoyed it, the classroom was located at the top of the north tower, on the other side of the castle. Draco had yet to implement any kind of sleep schedule, relying instead on what little natural light filtered through the lake to wake him up. So far that was going as well as had been expected, that is to say: horribly. 

Having decided to give waking up another shot, Draco heaved of his mattress. In the best possible turn of events, he stubbed his toe on the leg of his nightstand. He swore, but otherwise continued upright. The dim warmth of his closet welcomed the Slytherin and he rubbed his eyes to clear them. Once he'd put on his robes and woke up enough to function, Draco steeled himself. He knew that once he cast his disillusionment charm and bolted those imposing double doors he would become Malfoy once more. If he had any last emotions, he'd best air them now. This morning ritual was perhaps not as normal as the other elements in his toilette, but it was at least twice as important. "There's something wrong with me but I can't say what." The sentence hung in the air, suspended like the news of a death no one was quite ready to accept. Draco didn't know why he'd said it. Appart from his usual anxiety over the division, he had no major problems. Except that now, apparently, he did. Draco had not prepared for this situation. He didn't want to leave this realization dangling, but if he wasted any more time in his room he lost any chance of dodging other students and grabbing a cup of coffee from the kitchen. In the end, caffeine depravation won out and, with a sigh, he grabbed his satchel and walked out the door. 

It wasn't a long walk to the kitchens from the Slytherin common room, at least not for Draco. As someone who'd needed a morning coffee every day since he was 13, he knew the way like the back of his hand. Draco knew his parents would be mortified by the knowledge that their pureblood son frequently broke hid bread with the Hogwarts house elves, but to him beings and beasts had lost their strangeness. Much like the merpeople of the black lake, the elves were just other inhabitants of the school. Draco soon reached the still-life that served as an entrance to to kitchens; he tickled the pear, and went in.

The kitchens were huge, and warm, heated by the fire of at least 10 massive ovens. Floor to ceiling pantries and ice boxes lined the walls and the scent of spices hovered, sweet and heady in the stuffed air. Two long tables extended across the room, one reserved for the preparation of food, the other for the house elves to rest at during their breaks. Draco walked towards the latter of the two and sat down. His status as a regular acted as a silent cue for the house elves to start preparing a pot of insanely black coffee with a spoonful or so of chocolate slipped in when nobody was watching. Draco found his love for chocolate distinctly un-Malfoy-esque and therefore something to hide, yet he could make an exception in front of the house elves. His coffee prepared, Draco took a long swallow, relishing the bittersweet nuttiness of the drink. 

As he prepared to take a second sip, he heard the painting-door swing open, but thought nothing of it. Draco knew he was not the only student who frequented the kitchens, desperate for a drink before breakfast opened at 7:00. He didn't bother turning his head to see who it was, curiosity was not befitting in the Slytherin prince. But there where other ways of discerning an identity. The foot steps were unfamiliar, not light enough to be a lost first year and lacking the superiority of a faculty member. They were measured, though, with a strength and balance that came only to a quidditch player. These were the steps of a seeker. Other than himself, that year's seekers were Summerby, Chang, and, of course, Potter. Draco's stomach sank. It was only a feeling, but in that second he knew who had just entered the kitchen, now only seconds from noticing him. 

"Malfoy? What on Earth are you doing here?" The voice was incredulous, suspicious, and familiar. Draco stood and turned towards the voice, his diaphragm suddenly weak. "Drinking coffee?" He could have slapped himself. That was an answer Draco would have given, Malfoy would have been stronger. Malfoy would have acted secretive and angry, menacing. Draco waited for the laughter at his vulnerability to come. None did. "Oh." Potter's voice was softer, surprised by the lack of hostility, yet still hesitant. For the second time that morning, Draco's body did something entirely uncalled for. "You can have some if you'd like." Great, this was just wonderful. Now Potter was going to think Draco was trying to poison him. He would run to get Dumbledore and Draco would be packing for Azkaban before his coffee had gone cold. Draco's eyes met the Gryffindor's for a fraction of a second. Harry looked like Draco felt: as though the world they both knew had fallen from beneath them. Before he could stop them, words flowed from Draco's lips. "Coffee is a sanctum; we might hate each other, but I'm not going to deny you caffeine. I like mine with chocolate in it, so if it tastes sweet that's why." The sentences were stuttered and quite, completely lacking in Malfoy's cruel veneer. "And it's not poisoned." Draco added as an afterthought. He took a shy sip from his own cup to prove the point. Potter had come closer during his speech, now the boys were facing each other a mere foot apart. Potter answered in a shocked whisper. "Sure."

Hands shaking, Draco went to a cupboard for a spare mug, then poured the searing liquid, being careful not to spill. Potter took the mug from him, avoiding the Slytherin's fingers. He took a cautious sip, as though he didn't quite believe that this encounter wasn't some kind of assassination attempt, before relaxing into the black drink. "The chocolate," Potter whispered, still wary, "It's really good." Draco barely heard him, he was too busy staring at the golden boy's face. The messy black hair, curling at the base of his ears, an army of question marks interrogating the Gryffindor's every turn of his head. The round glasses fogging up from the heat of Draco's coffee. Draco's coffee. Draco drained the last of his cup, terror at what he'd just done coursing through his veins. He needed to run, to dive into the black lake and never resurface, like the swimmer would have done all those months ago. He had colored outside the carefully drawn lines of the division. He might as well have thrown open his closet doors, let everybody come and bask in his secrets. "I have to go." Draco said, with all the strength he could muster. It took all his self-control not to apologise. Malfoys never apologized. He felt ice begin to overtake the terror in his blood. Draco left without a look behind him; Malfoy had returned, and the moment had shattered. 

----

Draco didn't bother with classes that day. He had the highest grades in Slytherin; he could afford an absence. Rather, he sat in his closet, still in his robes, and paged through his sketchbooks. He started at the beginning of fourth year, slowly progressing through the many vanitas still lifes and scribbled potion instructions. When he came to February, the drawings changed. They showed hands, pale and deathly. They showed color sketches of a burgundy tunic rippled up by water to reveal a pale stomach, flattened by water pressure. The more conceptuel pieces flowed with forests of seaweed, braided with stripes of pitch black hair, tangled in currents of brackish water. Draco's eyes came to rest on the drawing from the train. The paper wavered in his squinted, hateful gaze. For months, Draco had been drawing Harry Potter. And he hadn't even noticed. 

An: The plot thickens! Mwahahahaha! <insert more ominous laughter> How have you all been?  I know I haven't updated in a while, but I've been on vacation for the past month without my computer. I'll post another chapter this week to compensate. I hope that wherever you are in time or space that the pandemic has eased up on your region and that the end of the world is not yet come. Oppression and injustice is rampant where I live, so I remind you: speak for those who cannot speak themselves. But I digress. Remember that even when the world seems black, I still love you all for yourselves. Try to eat, sleep and function. Oh! I almost forgot: Should I add chapters told from the POV of another character? If so, who? Tell me in the comments :)

-Ophelia