Contrary to the beliefs of many an aspiring author, flocks of owls descending in droves onto the breakfast tables of Hogwarts were not a particularly common occurrence. Of course, there were always owls delivering messages to the staff- Dumbledore in particular tended to have what must be the highly harrowing experience of a letter splattering wetly into his breakfast every other morning or so- and there were those students who, like Hermione Granger, had decided to pay for the privilege of having a paper brought in for them, but really, that was usually about it. Even the most dedicated parents couldn't be expected to write their children more than once a week.

And the students never sent messages to each other via owl. Really, what would be the point? In the time spent writing the note, walking all the up to the owlrey, selecting an owl, getting bitten, selecting another, giving it instructions, and watching it wing its surly way to the other side of the castle where it would presumably wait until morning to deliver its message, one could just as easily have gone and found whoever they wanted to talk to. And if talking to them in person really wasn't an option, there was always good old fashioned note passing.

It had therefore been something of a surprise to Draco the first time he had come down to breakfast (late, as always- it might no longer be feasible for him to spend the days in his room, but damned if he was going to make himself an obvious target) to find that a troop of owls were busily stacking letters in front of his usual seat. They seemed to have decided that the really impressive thing to do would be to have some of them overflow onto the bench and floor.

Overnight, he had become popular.

Not that he objected to this, in theory. He had always considered himself to be the sort of charismatic individual it would be possible to have a hopeless, worshiping-from-afar kind of a crush on. The worrisome thing was that no one (with the possible exception of a few Slytherin girls who he wouldn't have touched with a ten foot pole under any circumstances) had ever agreed with him before. Now it seemed that anyone in the school would willingly drop whoever the author had paired them up with just for the pleasure of being his bitch.

Draco hadn't even known that bitch was viable vocabulary in this universe.

On that first morning, he'd been convinced that the entire thing was some sort of sick joke. Hadn't bothered to open a single letter, just grabbed the nearest envelope (pink, as it happened) and stormed over to the Gryffindor table.

"Potter, is this your idea of... oh."

"Obviously not." Harry responded, somewhat needlessly, pushing his glasses up and meeting Draco's eyes over a pile of letters which might charitably be called *almost* as large as Draco's own. "Perhaps the author's trying to add a bit of background color to the story?"

Draco, who had been momentarily distracted by thinking about how much Harry's gaze was *not* effecting the rate of his heart, nodded. "That must be it."

"So."

"So?"

Harry stood up and leaned over the table, speaking quietly and distinctly. "So what exactly were you planning on doing *had* it been me, snake-boy?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Oh unstilt your dialogue, Harry. You know you'd love to fight me. You'd spend the whole time hoping for a chance to touch me inappropriately."

"Draco?"

"What?"

"You just called me Harry."

Draco suddenly realized that they were so close the table they were both leaning against might as well have not been there. He also had time to wonder how they were managing it, considering the fact that he was standing outside of the bench on his side and there was still a mountain of letters on the table, and to think, ridiculously, given that he was in a position from which his mind should be spending every moment trying to think of a way to extricate himself, of the lightning shock of a kiss placed on his palm.

At that point, he realized that his eyes were closed.

Oh. Good. That way he couldn't see the rest of the school laughing at him.

"I knew it!"

Draco started back, adrenaline rush rapidly receding as he stared (and no, it wasn't glaring, no more than usual) at the Weasel, who had leapt to his feet and was grinning excitedly.

"I just knew it! Oh, I've been wondering for the longest time when you two were going to figure it out..."

"What?" Harry's other friend, Granger, was looking up at them too now. "Ron, what are you talking about? Harry would never get together with scum like Malfoy, even if... oh my god, Harry, are you gay?" she gasped, apparently forgetting about every other homosexual couple in the room, including her own girlfriend Ginny, who looked ready to burst into tears.

Draco and Harry exchanged glances. After a long moment, Harry looked from one friend to the other. "Er... don't you think the two of you might have it backwards?" he asked. "I mean, usually it's Hermione who's empathetic and Ron who gets all huffy."

Hermione shrugged. "We think the author might be trying to be original," she offered.

"It's not working out very well."

"Well, what did you expect?" Ron asked, bristling.

Draco felt that all three of them were missing something particularly crucial. "Besides which, we are *not* together."

Three heads swiveled towards him. "You aren't?" Hermione asked him.

"You aren't?" Ron echoed.

"Very good, Potter," Draco drawled. "You're goons are on almost the same level as mine."

Ron looked confused. "But you- I *saw* you!"

Draco grimaced expressively. "Shit happens," he explained, reveling in the taste of a previously forbidden word, "Blame the author."

And then he'd beat as fast a retreat as dignity would allow him, astonished and not a little chagrined at the fact that he now had something to thank Weasley for. After all, he'd almost...

Stupid author.

In any case, whatever might have happened on that morning, it hadn't gotten rid of the ridiculous writer. Or the letters, which if anything seemed to be multiplying exponentially as the mornings continued to wax and wane. And all without any semblance of a plot appearing.

Although potions class continued to be a harrowing experience.

Really, though, nothing had changed.

Nothing at all.

Oh, bugger that. Draco was really pretty sure it wasn't true, anyway. If fact, he thought- well, that was to say, not exactly, but maybe- well, anyway probably, or at least- well. What he was trying to think, very, very quietly to himself in hopes that the author not be picking up on it, was that it might be... not outside the realm of possibility to- and it might not be a bad idea to just... consider the evidence and see if he might not be falling for Harry.

It wasn't the fact that violins seemed to cue up every time he looked at him. It wasn't that speaking to him seemed to make the day brighter, the world warmer, Crabbe and Goyle slightly more intelligent. It wasn't that his heart would go double time if someone mentioned Harry's name. It wasn't even that he'd started thinking about Harry as Harry, instead of Potter or, better still, 'curse him.'

He knew perfectly well why all of that was happening, and he took no responsibility at all.

It was that it wasn't *just* his heartbeat. It was his heart and a faint flush to his cheeks, a painful twist in his stomach, a strangely clammy feeling crawling over the palms of his hands, and a thousand other bodily responses that slipshod writers inevitably forgot.

It was the fact that he didn't just think about Harry when he saw him. He thought about him in the middle of advanced Divination, walking through the dungeons on his way to quiddich practice, washing his hands before bed, and a million other times that authors never bothered to write about.

It was that he was quietly thinking phrases like 'falling for Harry' to himself, without reminding anybody what a terribly cheesy phrase that was.

And it was something he would never ever admit to anybody, he promised himself savagely, tearing apart yet another declaration of hopeless love as he watched Harry idly dip one of his own letters into Seamus' scrambled eggs and catsup.

Dammit, Malfoys simply didn't feel this way!

He could sense the clouds of angst building up around him.

In a way it was fortuitous that he'd started thinking about the Malfoy name again. Otherwise he might not have noticed the crest that was proudly emblazoned across the back of one of his messages.

Lord, I don't ask for much. But please, please tell me that neither of my parents has taken in into his or her head to write me a love letter.

Reaching out as if the snake twined around the Malfoy shield might actually manage to bite him, he broke the seal.

My Dear Son:

Auspicious news, dearest Draco! Our great leader, may he never die (again) has at last set his final plan into motion. It may mean deeper dedication, it may mean harsh sacrifice, but I am confident you will do all he asks. You must-

(and here there was a blank space upon the paper, as if the writer was attempting a visual dramatic pause)

seduce the Boy Who Lived.

Ever your Loving,

Father

"Right." Said Draco, crumpling the letter. "Absolutely fine, you pompous, clichéd, plebian *AUTHOR!*" He was on his feet now, shouting and waving his arms, not caring that the entire hall was staring at him, awestruck by his rage. He could feel tears coming. "You've ruined my life, you know that?"

The occupant of the hall were frozen in shock. "Draco," Harry said softly.

"I Hate You!" Draco screamed. And he was crying now, unable to see anything but not needing to, propelled by anger and misery as he ran from the room.

So.

So this was it. The coup de grace. The final straw. It wasn't enough to make him miserable in school, to turn the world he lived in into some bizarre parody of itself. The melodrama, the idiocy, the romanticism, it must not cut it anymore. So. Now there were no more lengths to go to, no more strings to pull. Everything had fallen apart.

But he wouldn't do it. He'd never done something he didn't want to before, and he wasn't going to start now. He'd screw the system.

His blind steps had brought him to the owlrey. Of course. Letters again. Letters made the words, words made the story. But this time, he was going to do the writing.

Dear Sir.

Lord Voldemort can take his evil plot and stick it. So can you. Will *not* be sleeping with Harry Potter. Not now, not ever. Have a nice day,

Draco

He waited until after the owl was gone to start crying again in earnest.

Draco couldn't have said how long he'd been there, collapsed against the frame of the window. Nor he imagined could the author, who obviously had a terrible sense of time and was probably behind as it was, judging by their attempt at forcing his hand. Long enough for the rough stonework of the sill to have made a permanent imprint on his cheek and forehead, anyways.

Long enough for the writer to think it was time to stir things up.

Someone was crossing the room.

No. Not someone. He knew who it was, of course. And he would have known, under any circumstances, which was no small amount disturbing and didn't help his temper one bit.

"Draco."

Draco came up swinging, and his fist cracked against Harry's jaw with a satisfying smacking sound. Harry, flung backwards by shock and the force of the blow, fell and landed hard on the floor. Draco followed him down, pummeling savagely, disregarding the hooting of the owls and the foul quality of the surface beneath them. This was probably just the sort of thing the author was hoping for, and he just didn't care. He went for a stranglehold around the other boy's throat.

Harry's glasses had shattered, they were both dusted with pricking shards. Draco's fingers were leaving livid marks against the sensitive skin under his chin, and he looked to be having trouble breathing. Draco couldn't have said what would have happened next- when Harry's arms came up around his back and pulled him downwards, forcing him to ease the pressure slightly as his elbows bent.

Draco had no idea when he simply stopped trying and left his hands limp against his captor's chest. How could he choke someone who wouldn't fight back? Frustrated tears and sweat were mingling with blood from their cuts. He could feel the other boy's chest rising and falling quickly under him, could hear both of them breathing in short, sharp gasps. And eventually he realized he was talking, too.

"I don't speak French, you know. All the writers seem to think I should, but I can't. And I don't have this great pile of buried anguish because of all the things I've done. I'd never do anything stupid like send you flowers, I'm not a girl, I have all kinds of nasty habits and I honestly don't give a damn about my grades. I'm not about to betray my parents or be nice to your friends. I'm conceited, stupid, pointy faced and an inch from anorexic. I'm not everything the slashers want to pretend I am. I'm two dimensional, petty evil. Why can't you leave me alone?"

Harry, frustratingly, didn't say anything. Just shifted the boy in his arms until they were almost face to face.

Draco moved his hand to brush glass from Harry's face. "Do you know what I just did, Potter? I just told the Dark Lord to screw himself. All so I wouldn't have to be with you."

Harry leant forward and kissed his cheek.

Draco realized they must both be aware of how quickly his heart was beating. He could feel the tension in the other boy too, even as he moved to continue his ministrations, leaving a line of soft stroking kisses up to Draco's temple. He decided he'd better keep talking. "This is completely against canon. And no matter how it may feel, it's not love, and it's not real. I don't love you."

"Not yet." Harry whispered.

"Not ever." Draco countered. He found that his speech was now being given to the arch of Harry's neck. His mouth kept accidentally brushing against soft skin. "I happen to like being a villain. I'm not going to come running over to your side. A relationship between us would never work."

"Mmm-hmm..."

"Are you listening to me?" Draco gave up the battle, stopped keeping his lips from working against Harry's collarbone as he spoke.

"No." Harry pulled back and looked at the other boy, amused. "Should I be?"

"That's not funny."

"Draco," Harry said long-sufferingly. "I can't kiss you very easily from this position."

So Draco kissed him, and there were fireworks.

It was a melting sort of a kiss, distilled down to perfection as it was forced to wait four chapters and many thousands of words longer than the author had planned. It was fire and ice, it was all four elements combined.

It was, Draco was discovering, ridiculously easy to be cliché all on your own.

Which reminded him...

Pushing away from Harry, who looked somewhat dazed and thoroughly short of breath, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his wand, waving it distractedly in the direction of the ceiling.

"Finitum." He whispered.

And the author was rather surprised to find that her fic was at an