Draco was sending rocks into the lake.
They didn't skip over the water. He didn't care if they did.
They flew and they sank.
They leapt and they inevitably fell.
Hermione had found him, a sharp rock in his hands, neither smooth nor polished, no good for skipping stones.
"You should go see Harry." She told him.
He threw the rock into the water, it landed with an audible plonk and was soon out of sight.
The ripples were the only thing that remained.
But they, too, disappeared.
No matter how great their fall, it always seemed like they never had been there in the first place.
Nobody missed a rock, no matter how beautiful.
"He would like to see you." Hermione said.
Draco didn't acknowledge her.
He knew she was there, of course.
He heard what she had to say.
When she mentioned Harry's name, he had wanted nothing more than to drop everything and run to him.
But he kept himself from doing just that, hating how vulnerable Harry made him.
So Draco stayed there, ignoring Hermione.
He threw the rocks away like he wished he could his heart.
It was the only thing in him that anyone could love, the only thing that was entirely his, except it had chased the sun and chased the moon, until it knew only that.
He had chased his dreams until his feet had begun to bleed.
He had chased his hopes until they tripped and fell.
But when he had chased after love, he had found it already in the palm of his hand, like the downturned blade of a knife.