It was just a room. Plain, pretty much simple. Double bed with a barred headboard. Chestnut dresser, and a nightstand next to the

bed. White, silk sheets, and pillows, with white silk covers. A big thick comforter, black as night on one side, and red as

blood on the other. On the nightstand, a red lamp, with a black shade stood. Other than that there was the expected assorted reading. `Quidditch Weekly', `The daily Profit', and several other

magazines littered the small table, smiling faces waving up at nothing.

There was one window in the room; it was small, up high. He was in the highest point in the dungeon, as far away from the storm outside

as he could get and still be above ground.

The rain still woke him. Damn the rain. To wake him so quickly out of (thankfully) dreamless slumber, only to open his eyes and feel his skin heat up because every waking moment was filled with `Him'. His hair, his priceless emerald eyes, the flawless way he flied...

He couldn't take it; it was too hot, so the comforter and sheets were quickly removed, thrown to pool around the bed.

He lay sprawled out, one arm hanging over each side of the bed, feet shoulder length apart, panting. No, this wasn't enough. He

unbuttoned his shirt, flung it carelessly aside and begun to pull at his

boxers. His arousal was evident through the coarse material, which was

also quickly removed.

Once free of the binding, hot clothing he turned, 180 degrees, until his feet could curl around the bars. He then turned his attention

to the most important thing in his room. A mirror, kind of oldfashioned, oval shape. It faced the bed, and he was able to stare into his own eyes. `Everything in life is based on an image. The way everyone else sees you, how you see your self, it doesn't matter. Image is

everything. My image. His image. His face, his tears, his moans...' He reached down to wrap a hand around his rigid member, throwing the other hand over his head to brush the floor. But he could still see himself, and that was good.

`His willingness, his desire, his childishness, his body, his playfulness, his roughness. His body, his eyes...'

"...Oh...god..."

`His eyes windows to the soul. And no window has ever shone brighter than the eyes of Harry James Potter. Those bright emerald stars, distant galaxies that no one can reach.'

His strokes were slow at first, but then it became harder to

suppress his growing desire. The want, no the need for Harry to be there, pressed up against him, for Harry's hand to replace his own.

"...Please, I need..."

` Image, look into my eyes, your eyes, do you see strength there?No, just a little weakling, a weakling who loves the wrong person. Why do you do this to yourself?'

"..Be-because I need to be...weak."

He gasped, as he watched himself in the mirror, stroking his cock with vigor, his other hand, slowly coming up to caress his cheek, lips, neck and collarbone. He felt his hand begin to shake, andhis nerves to tingle.

"...Oh, yes. So close..." He shut his eyes tightly biting down on his lower lip.

`Open your eyes and look at yourself. You weak little nothing! Why would you need this, why would you want this?!'

His eyes adjusted to the image once again, and he imagined Harry was riding him, moaning above him, drowning out the nagging voice in

his head.

"Because...it...it's all I can be...for him..."

The image shattered as a thousand feelings rushed through him at once. Heat flooded his mind and body then was followed by icy cold that melted into nothing and left him shaking in wonder and climax.

"...God, Harry..." The relaxed warmth that tingled through him lasted only as long as the missing thought process.

`Well, I guess an image can do many things. I can't wait, two more days and a strand of Potter's hair, and I'm him for an hour.

Images like that...'

Draco shuddered in bed, realizing for once how cold it truly was.

"Christ, I'm going insane."

`Yup.'

"Shut up."