Drarry (Draco/Harry)

Myrtle's Toilet. Sixth Year, Evening.

Draco has been sitting on the floor by the sinks for hours now. His hands are clasped behind his head, as if his head is about to explode. Van Zabini and Pansy are long gone. Myrtle is floating near the ceiling, sniffling, delighted by someone else's misfortune.

On the table is a bottle of weeping myrtle... that is, from the potion. Draco isn't crying. He's just telling himself, very quietly, that everything is under control, that he can handle it, that he has no choice—and his voice is shaking. That loving Potter is a fluke. But is that really true?

And then the door opens.

Harry Potter. That idiot always on time. Wand at the ready – he saw Draco emerge from the Slugs' office... no, from around the corner on the sixth floor, spot a strange figure out of the corner of his eye, and follow. Out of curiosity. Out of that stupid curiosity that never leads to anything good.

Draco reacted. Now the wands were pointed at each other. Which one of them would drop the wand first... or cast a spell?