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Leaning against the windowsill, maintaining a falsely relaxed posture and a distant unfocused gaze, Draco's image was comparable to the sun rays that flickered through the window; warm and inviting, ironically ethereal and intangible. Harry could almost imagine the moment when he would merge with the light and become translucent, disappearing from his sight in seconds like the dust of a dry summer day. Sometimes, Harry noticed that the blond boy was looking at him, those grey eyes reversing the previous image like the breaking of a violent and hungry wave. A ticking of a clock would be enough for Draco Malfoy to be converted at dusk, transfiguring himself into a static and serene moon; silent as a void and cold as ice. Thus, he would always be the insistent and irritating personification of duality for Harry Potter, who did not know how to deal with the tropicality of his very divergent personality.
Harry had not discovered the crux of the matter. He still couldn't predict the patterns and find the perfect sequence that would decode Malfoy in his mind — to him, it seemed impossible that the other man could be read and mapped, it was like the rebellion of a teenager who didn't conform to the rules of life. Despite constantly trying, Harry felt that this binary would never come to an end; the pleasure Draco felt in being everything and nothing at the same time had already surpassed the barriers of compassion he could feel for Harry. It was no longer a provocation — now, Harry knew that he was living in torture.