Author: Plumeria
A/N: IP11 Spinoff scene - what happened during Draco's vigil of the sleeping, drunken Harry? Draco POV
Rating: G/PG
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter universe belongs to JKRowling. The plot of Irresistible Poison belongs to my HP slash queen, Rhysenn.

Sleep.

It could bring unfathomable dreams, terrifying nightmares, or quiet oblivion.

Considering the amount of Butterbooze Harry had drunk, Draco suspected it was the latter. He only wished he could experience that welcome lack of sensation himself. Sleep eluded him, but it hardly mattered. Even if he had given in to exhaustion, he knew his sleep would only be filled with thoughts and images of Harry, just as they had every night for what felt like eternity.

Exactly the same as when he was awake.

Oh, he had tried to doze off, knowing that a night without sleep wouldn't help his situation any. When that failed, he had tried to distract his thoughts by going to stand at the small window, watching the stars sparkle in the eastern sky. Dawn was still hours away, and yet he had stared for long moments into the cold velvet night, willing the silver dawn to come and end his pain. By morning, Harry would likely waken; Draco would then be free to return to his dormitory, where homework and fellow Slytherins provided a small, yet longed-for, temporary diversion. But no, the horizon was dark as ever, a uniformly inky sea. Only the jewel-bright constellations marked where the sky ended and the earth began.

And so he was stuck here, alone, with nothing to focus on except the object of his tortured nightmares and most pleasurable daydreams. Harry. He supposed he could have just left the Gryffindor to sleep off his drunkenness alone, while he returned to the pretended safety of his emerald-hung four-poster in the dungeons. But ... he just couldn't. It wasn't so much a matter of honour - potion or no potion, Draco's inner Slytherin was not prone to acting out of sentimental obligation or guilt. He didn't keep vigil because Harry had gotten drunk on Butterbooze Draco had given him. Nor did he feel he 'owed' Harry for concocting the anti-toxin, or even for the unforgettable midnight dance.

Draco stayed because ... because it was Harry. It was the only reason he needed. And despite his pain, it was more than enough.

He left the window and found a semi-comfortable place on the floor; leaning his back against the fateful trunk, he watched his beloved nemesis sleep. And even though being alone with the dark-haired boy caused Draco a greater agony than anything he'd ever known, it also brought him a strange sense of peace. Harry made him feel whole, as if he had been incomplete all his life but had never known it until the potion had burned its irrevocable way through his soul.

Harry, too, had succumbed to a higher chemical power, Draco noted. How ironic. But the Butterbooze would almost certainly release its grip in a few hours, whereas Draco felt as if his emotional control was gone forever. As if he would be content to just sit and watch Harry breathe for the rest of their lives.

Breathe ... breathe ... breathe

The rhythm was momentarily interrupted as Harry inhaled abruptly. His fingers flexed, casting amethyst and emerald shadows in the candlelight, and Draco unconsciously held his breath too. Would he waken? Or was he merely dreaming? The answer came as the dark-haired boy promptly quieted, and all was still once more. Only a dream. Had excitement or terror caused the disruption?

Breathe ... breathe ... breathe

One black lock had fallen into the Gryffindor's eyes. Draco reached out to brush it away, then hesitated. His fingers itched to sift the dark strands, to touch Harry's face, to trace the maddening scar, to whisper along his cheek. But not like this. He wanted the endless green eyes to be open when he did that, so he could watch their reaction to his touch. He pulled his hand back.

Breathe ... breathe ... breathe

Had hours passed, or merely minutes? Draco was too focused on Harry to care. He found himself trying to brand every detail of the sleeping image into his brain, on the off chance the anti-toxin would work and leave him without future opportunities to do so. He didn't notice that his own respiration now matched the other boy's, in perfect synchronisation. In and out. In and out. I hate him. I love him. My opposite. My match.

Breathe ... breathe ... breathe

He glanced out the window at the still-dark sky; to his eyes, nothing had changed. But, slowly, imperceptibly, the black night ceded its hold on the heavens, allowing the hidden sun to make its long-awaited approach.

End.