To Harry's eyes Draco is like music, soaring in the still air, a melodic line that is indefinably him. Sometimes Harry thinks he could find it in his sleep, in whatever variation it happens to be hiding – lyrical, atonal, triumphal, elegiac, strophe and antistrophe or resolved to a single voice. He wonders how many variations there are that he has never heard.

Harry wants to shape that melody with his hands and mouth, to guide it into tempered harmonies and away from sharpness and dissonance. He wants to find its source, and find his own, and draw the urtext from Draco's skin.