1

I am not yours, not lost in you,
Not lost, although I long to be
Lost as a candle lit at noon,
Lost as a snowflake in the sea.

You love me, and I find you still
A spirit beautiful and bright,
Yet I am I, who long to be
Lost as a light is lost in light.

Oh plunge me deep in love -- put out
My senses, leave me deaf and blind,
Swept by the tempest of your love,
A taper in a rushing wind.

--‘I Am Not Yours’, Sarah Teasdale

Beautiful was not a word Harry Potter used often, and it certainly was not a word he would have used to describe autumn. He didn’t like it. The dead leaves crackling on the ground when he walked, the trees growing more exposed with every day, and the thick smell of wet dirt that was heavy on the cold air all served to make it his least favorite time of year. Only the beginning of the Quidditch season made it in any way redeemable, and then, only if he was having a good season, which, of course, he usually was.

Spring was more to his taste, more of a beginning than an ending, where things came back to life rather than died. He liked the smell of clover in the air, though he never knew that was what he liked about spring so much. He just knew he liked it and didn’t spend time deciding why. There wasn’t enough time in the world to think about the reasons for everything, and Harry had long ago decided that the smell of clover was something he would not think about. The smell of fresh clover and the crackle of dead leaves were all too frivolous to think about.

Instead, as he walked home alone through the darkness, Harry was thinking about Quidditch. The first match of the season between Gryffindor and Slytherin was scheduled for the next day, and he was grimly determined not to let the other house take a lead in house points by winning the match.

The only sound was the grinding leaves under his boots and the wind blowing through the trees, and Harry, for the first time, considered that setting out alone for Hogwarts was not the best idea. However, it had been a Hogsmeade weekend and he, Ron, and Hermione had all gone to the Three Broomsticks together, drinking butterbeer to ward off the early-October chill and laughing the way they always seemed to when they were together. There was Quidditch to think about, however, and Harry had left shortly before dusk, leaving his friends to return to the castle. He needed to be well rested to beat Slytherin, after all.

Harry had just noted with relief that he would soon be in sight of the castle, when a strange noise nearby made him freeze, his eyes widening a tiny bit. It sounded like some sort of wild animal in pain. Harry had not known Hagrid for all these years without at least a small degree of the other man’s love for animals rubbing off on him, so, clutching his wand in case he needed a quick stunning spell to help him escape, Harry followed the noises off the path and into the trees.

He stopped abruptly when the exact cause of the noise was revealed in the silver moonlight.

“What,” he asked in a voice that implied he very much did not really want to know, “on earth are you doing to that tree?”

Draco Malfoy stiffened at the sound of his voice and slowly pulled his head out of the hollow in the trunk of the tree and turned around. He insolently ran his eyes over Harry’s body and then said, carefully enunciating every syllable, “I am drunk.”

Harry smirked. “Which must be why you had mistaken that poor tree for a person and started molesting it. Though, had you thought the tree was a Slytherin, I can see how you’d make that mistake. Ugly lot, you Slytherins.”

Malfoy’s eyes, already glazed from too much Firewhiskey, narrowed. “No,” he said, voice slightly slurred. “I am drunk because you are an illusion sent to torment me in my drunken state.”

Snickering, Harry sneered, “Damn, Malfoy, you even manage to sound like a prissy git when you’re sotted.”

Malfoy shook his head, lost his balance, and fell against the tree trunk. He reached one arm back into the trunk and started rummaging again. “Piss off, Potter,” he said in a dismissive tone, turning his back to Harry.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked again.

“Looking for more whiskey,” Malfoy muttered.

“Oh.” Harry briefly considered telling him that he had obviously had enough whiskey, but the prospect of playing Quidditch in the morning against a hungover Draco was too good to pass up.

“Don’t you want to know why?” Malfoy called over his shoulder, fumbling with a bottle that was too tall to pull through the hole. “Why I’m drunk, I mean.”

“Not particularly.”

But Malfoy was a chatty drunk. He managed to pull the whiskey bottle out of the tree and leaned against the trunk. “Father says I’ve got to stay here for Christmas.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Poor you, Malfoy. Honestly, cry me a river, because I care. Really, I do.”

“Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Potter, just because you always have to stay here over the holidays doesn’t mean the rest of us want to.”

“There are worse places to be,” Harry said with a shrug, turning to leave.

“Oh, you can say that,” Malfoy called woefully. “You indeed can say that, Potter. But you don’t have to share a dorm with Crabbe. And your roommate doesn’t insist upon shagging Pansy practically every night, forgetting that you’re in the bed across the way.” He took a long swallow of whiskey.

Harry had turned back around, inspecting Malfoy critically, and with more than a little amusement. “Malfoy, honestly, spare me the details? I didn’t expect you to have it in you to be this pathetic. Getting drunk in the forest while your thug shags Pansy in your room? Nasty.”

“This is my secret stash,” Malfoy said with a nod, indicating the hole in the tree. “No one knows its here.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I do.”

Malfoy considered this for a moment, swaggering closer with a thoughtful smirk. “I suppose it’s not so secret anymore then. Now it’ll have to be a place I keep things I want you to find, and there certainly aren’t many of those.” He drank more whiskey thoughtfully. “I’ll have to find a new stashing place, you’ll steal this one, I’m sure.”

Draco was close enough now for Harry to smell the whiskey on his breath and spilled on his clothing, and he wrinkled his nose, stepping away. “I don’t drink whiskey, Malfoy, so your stash is safe from me.”

“Ah, yes,” Malfoy said in a voice heavy with woeful amusement. “The Paragon Of Goodness and Perfection would hardly lower himself to drink whiskey like us mere mortals. But then, a Gryffindor and a Muggle lover would never appreciate whiskey of so fine a caliber as this, so your ignorance is forgivable.” The entire speech was made all the more ridiculous in that it was slurred and made Malfoy sound years younger, like a child.

“Bugger off, Malfoy,” Harry snapped, having grown tired even of watching Malfoy humiliate himself in his drunken state. He turned to leave again, and Malfoy grabbed his arm.

“You think you’re better than us,” he hissed. “You and your little friends. Heroes and champions of the school.”

“We think we’re better than you? C’mon, you’re a Malfoy, who could possibly think they’re better than you?” Harry said sarcastically.

“You, apparently, and wrongly so,” Draco snorted. “You’re not, you know. You’re just like everyone else.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder and said coldly, “I am just like everybody else, Malfoy, and even then, I’m a good ways better than you.” He shoved him hard, easily knocking Malfoy to the ground, and walked away without glancing back. Malfoy cursed at him and shouted as many insults as he could remember, but Harry walking away lost precedence to the whiskey he had spilled when he fell.

Malfoy eventually made it back to the castle and collapsed onto his bed to sleep off the whiskey, but Harry didn’t care one way or the other, and spent an hour before bed going over various Quidditch maneuvers he had taught the team during practices over the last month and hoped to try out against Slytherin the next day. Then, he opened the notebook he, Ron, and Hermione wrote in together, and scribbled a few lines about seeing Malfoy drunk in the woods. He was sure Ron would find it amusing.

The notebook had been Hermione’s idea. They would take it with them to class, writing in it whenever they felt like it, messages to each other or thoughts they had had, sometimes nothing more than doodles made out of boredom. It was a way to keep in touch even when seventh year classes threatened to overwhelm them. After writing in it for a while, they would trade off who got to take it to class, and that person would comment on what the last person had written and then write something if the mood stuck. By now, the book was half full of jokes, comments on various classes and teachers, complaints on homework, and even some more serious things, like thoughtful predictions on what Voldemort’s next move might be and discussions on Sirius’s whereabouts, all protected with code words and such, of course.

Harry finished writing and set his quill aside, climbing into bed. Ron had just snuck into the dormitory when he finally drifted off to sleep.

***

Waking up early and on the Quidditch pitch before dawn, Harry spent the early morning hours lazily circling the pitch, getting a feel for the weather conditions, the wind, and the visibility, planning how he’d have to adjust the game plans for those contingencies. It was a crisp, cold October day with a haze of gray clouds just thick enough to block the sun and not dark enough to warn of rain; perfect Quidditch conditions. He entered the Great Hall for breakfast eager to get on with the match, sure that it would be a Gryffindor victory.

“Big game today, right, Harry? You’re going to slaughter Slytherin!” Ron called happily when Harry entered the Hall.

Davis Connelly, the fifth year who played Keeper, overheard and grinned. “Of course we are, mate,” he said easily, his broad face lit up with excitement. “Don’t we always?”

“With Harry as our Seeker,” Seamus, a Chaser, boasted, “we can never lose!”

The other Gryffindors cheered, and the Slytherin table all turned to look and scowl at them.

“Good luck, Gryffindor,” a few of the Ravenclaws called, and Harry smiled to himself. It was just a normal game, after all. And Quidditch was always something to smile about, especially when it meant slaughtering Slytherin the way they always did.

***

The whole student body had gathered to watch the game, and Harry took his place above the other players, calling a few words of encouragement to his teammates. He had been made captain after Angelina had graduated.

The game started, and Harry’s eyes scanned the field, watching the progression of the Quaffle almost absently as he searched for the Snitch. He cast a few amused glances at Malfoy, who looked more like he was about to keel over and fall from his broom than offer any competition in catching the Snitch, but he knew better than to underestimate Malfoy. After all, it would be a very Slytherinish thing to do, to appear hungover to lull him into a false sense of security and then trounce him by easily catching the Snitch.

A Bludger nearly knocked Malfoy from his broom, and Harry laughed. Scowling, Malfoy glared at him, before a glitter of gold caught his eye a short ways above. Harry saw it at the same time, and they both soared upwards together, Malfoy with grim determination not to fall of his broom and to humiliate Harry by beating him when he could barely keep his breakfast down, and Harry with vague amusement at the wretched look in Malfoy’s eyes.

The Snitch darted away, and Harry cursed softly. Gryffindor and Slytherin were tied for points now, and he circled the pitch restlessly. He was about to go up a little higher to get a better view, when Malfoy suddenly dove straight down and Harry instinctively followed. His broom was faster and his technique more polished, especially since Malfoy was wobbling a little, his hands too shaky to keep the broom straight, and Harry easily caught up with him. He was flying nearly straight down, too close to Malfoy to pull away without risking getting the ends of their brooms tangled, but he didn’t care. His eyes were still restlessly scanning the ground below for the Snitch.

They were nearly to the ground when Harry realized what Malfoy had done, pretending to see the Snitch to throw Harry off, and he cursed at himself for not realizing it before. Malfoy heard the curse and laughed softly.

There were only seconds left before they’d hit the ground, and Harry moved to turn out of the dive. He was too close, however, and Malfoy hadn’t turned. Harry knocked into him, sending him off balance, and Malfoy, whose balance was already shaky at best, slipped sideways, yelping a little and holding fast to his broom. The ends of their brooms had gotten tangled, and Harry tried desperately to pull away, but it was too late, and, only seconds since beginning the dive, both of them slammed into the ground with a cracking of bones and broomsticks, and blackness swallowed Harry just as the agony of his broken bones tore into his mind and made him scream.

Beside him, just as broken and bloody, Malfoy muttered, “Weak, Potter,” before losing consciousness as well.

***

Draco was haunted by dreams where dark shadows like cobwebs kept brushing over his face, no matter how hard he struggled to push them away, cool and leathery like bat wings. He woke up clawing at his face, and it took him a few seconds to realize that it wasn’t real. And then his aching body reminded him of what had happened and where he was, and he moaned a little, grimacing.

Pomfrey had mended all his broken bones and fixed up his cuts and bruises, but his nerves still ached from the beating he had sustained. There was nothing Pomfrey could do to cure startled nerves, and his had been very startled at the sudden impact with the ground.

Pushing himself into a sitting position gradually, Draco pushed his hair out of his eyes, wincing at how limp and dirty it felt, and was about to call out for Pomfrey to demand to be allowed back to his common room, when a voice nearby startled him. It was Potter, who was still unconscious, and talking in his sleep.

“Don’t touch me,” he mumbled, turning restlessly on his side. Draco smirked, watching him.

“Don’t tell me the Boy-Who-Lived has nightmares,” he whispered to himself. His smirk widened. “Now what does Potter the Paragon of Perfection have to be afraid of? Voldemort? My father?” He scoffed, “You should be scared, Potter.”

Potter’s lips were compressed into a tiny line, and his face extremely pale now. He was tossing and turning even more restlessly, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. “Don’t,” he whimpered. “Ginny, don’t touch me.”

Draco nearly choked on his own saliva. A startled burst of laughter erupted from his throat, echoing loudly in the empty room and nearly waking Potter. Though he did not wake up, the noise had served to startle him out of the nightmare, and he drifted into easy sleep again, sighing and relaxing his fists. Draco even loathed indirectly helping Potter escape from his nightmare.

Before Draco could quite come to grips with the idea that, rather than being haunted by images of his own death at the hands of Voldemort, Potter had nightmares of being touched by Ginny Weasley, the door opened and a sliver of light lit up the dim room. Granger was peering into the room.

“Harry?” she called nervously. “Are you awake, Harry?” She pushed the door open a little bit farther. When she saw Draco watching her, she squeaked a little and looked as though she were going to turn and run.

“Books, Granger?” Draco drawled, rolling his eyes at the pile of books she was carrying. “You’re bringing him books?”

She glanced nervously at the book she held and then back up at him. “Yes. It’s his homework,” she said.

“By all means, come in and leave them then. Very important, homework is, especially for unconscious people. Gives them something to pass the time with, you know?”

She scowled. “I’m not afraid of you.”

Draco smiled slowly. “Of course not,” he sneered.

She nodded, though she didn’t look certain if he was just being sarcastic. “I’ll just leave the books, then. When he wakes up, will you tell him—”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I wanted you to tell him!”

“I’m not going to tell him anything. Why would I tell him anything? I hate him, remember? So just leave the books and go, you’re making me ache even more than I did before you got in here, and I assure you, it’s not the good kind of ache. It’s kind of like a throbbing sort of burst blood vessel, right behind the eyes. Not pleasant.”

“Are you always this nasty when you first wake up?” she snapped, slamming the books down on the table beside Potter’s bed.

“I’m not being nasty, Granger,” he replied absently. “I’m being honest. Now do hurry up.”

She scowled at him and then turned away, reaching into her robes and pulling a small, leather bound notebook out of her pocket. She glanced nervously at him and then slipped it on top of the pile of homework she’d brought, before hurrying out of the room.

It wasn’t even a full minute after the door had closed before Draco was gingerly getting out of bed and making his way over to the table, curiosity making it easy to forget his protesting nerves. He snatched the small book off the table and brought it over to the window where the light was better, inspecting the worn cover carefully.

“A journal?” he whispered to himself, impressed not that Potter would keep a journal, because that was a rather girlish hobby, really, but impressed that he, the son of Voldemort’s second-in-command would be so lucky as to find it and be given a glimpse into the inner workings of Potter’s mind. “How sweet, Potter, Granger brought you your journal.”

“What?” Potter asked groggily from the other bed, having just woken up. He squinted at Draco, looking extremely bad tempered. Draco quickly slipped the journal into his trousers and smiled, his most charming, Slytherinish smile, even as he frantically thought Potter’s journal is in my trousers. Potter’s journal is IN my trousers. Oh, shit. What am I doing?

“Nothing.”

Potter glanced around, still squinting, and fumbling for his glasses. “What happened?” His voice sounded thick and deeper than usual.

“Quidditch accident,” Draco replied in a chipper tone.

Potter slipped his glasses on, his eyes narrowed now for a different reason. “Oh yeah. You were hungover and nearly killed me,” he accused.

“Now, Potter, if you weren’t so clumsy at pulling out of a Feint, we wouldn’t have gotten tangled up,” Draco scolded. “If Pomfrey ever shows up, tell her I’m better and left.”

“I’m not giving anyone your messages!” Potter snapped.

For a moment, Draco was strangely disconcerted. He smirked. “You and I are more alike than you thought, Potter, because that’s just what I said to Granger.” He slipped out of the room before Potter could protest that the accident had been his fault or before he could ask exactly what Hermione had wanted Draco to tell him.

Draco snickered all the way back to his common room.

***

It was halfway through Double Potions with the Slytherins the next day and Harry was watching Snape rather absently as the professor did a demonstration of a very complex potion Harry hadn’t bothered to listen to the explanation for. Hermione would undoubtedly lend him her notes if he decided to study for this class anyway.

Snape had just added the last ingredient to the potion, leading to a rather anticlimactic soft popping sound, when Hermione leaned over and poked his shoulder. “Where’s the book?” she hissed.

Harry blinked. “What?”

“The book!” she repeated. “There’s something I want to write in it.”

“I don’t have it, I haven’t seen it since Saturday,” he whispered back.

“I left it for you in the hospital wing.”

“It wasn’t there. Are you sure—”

“Is there a problem?” Snape interrupted, arching one dark brow. His eyes were fixed on Harry’s face, and Harry fought the urge to squirm like a nervous first year. “Mister Potter?”

“No, sir,” Harry replied, licking his lips nervously.

“Alright then, Mister Potter, allow me to make a small wager. Since you seem to be so anxious to leave my classroom to talk with your friends, I’ll dismiss class early today on the condition that you prove you were listening to me by telling me exactly what the properties of Gobbler’s Ink are.” He smiled in a predatory fashion, and waited for Harry to answer. All of the Gryffindors turned to stare at him beseechingly, the chance to escape the dungeon an hour early something they had all been yearning for, and the Slytherins scowled at the knowledge that their freedom rested in the clumsy hands of a Gryffindor.

Harry swallowed hard, and said, “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t know.”

With a triumphant and sour smirk, Snape said silkily, “I didn’t think so, Mister Potter. Ten points from Gryffindor for interrupting my class and not paying attention. Now then. The preparation of Gobbler’s Ink, as I have shown you, is an exacting process.” Snape went on to list the attributes of different concentrations of the ink, and Harry leaned back in his chair, preparing to slip back into his stance of ‘I’m listening, Professor—Really, I Am’ that he had perfected after six full years of Professor Snape’s long and boring Potions class. Before he could settle into the stance, however, Malfoy’s eyes met his across the room, and he smirked in some strange, knowing sort of way that made Harry incredibly nervous.

Before he could scowl in return, Hermione, who had waited until Snape turned away, leaned over and whispered, “Sorry,” her face looking incredibly pale the way it only did during final exams or Snape’s Potions class.

Harry shrugged easily and by the time he’d turned back, Malfoy had turned away, almost as if nothing had happened.

Unnerved, Harry settled back into his chair and assumed his pretend-listening expression, all the while wondering what Malfoy could possibly know about him that would inspire that smirk. The possibilities left him cold.

***

At Hermione’s insistence, Harry had searched his dorm for the notebook but it wasn’t there. Together, the three of them searched the common room and checked with Madam Pomfrey, but she hadn’t seen it, and then, at a loss, they had finally gone to the library, sitting at a table in the back.

“We can’t just let it be lost,” Hermione hissed, looking pinched and irritated. “If any of the professors found that and looked at the drawings Ron did of them and thought I did it, I’d be in so much trouble! The notebook does have my name on the cover, you remember.”

“Come on, Hermione,” Ron scoffed. “They know you’re not creative enough to draw like that. Besides, they’re great pictures.”

“Yeah, if Snape really had a broomstick shoved up his arse and Dumbledore really had birds flying out of his ears,” Harry snickered.

Ron looked injured, though his eyes glittered with amusement. “You laughed just as hard as I did at those, Harry. And besides, Hermione, if you hadn’t insisted we keep that book and write to each other in it, none of this would have happened.”

“If you hadn’t insisted on only writing about how much you hate each one of our professors, it wouldn’t have been a problem!” she cried.

“That’s not all I wrote about,” Ron argued. “I also wrote about what a git Malfoy is.”

“Malfoy!” Hermione’s eyes widened. “He may have it! Harry, do you think he has it? Oh, please don’t let him have it, if he reads that, he can… he can use all of that stuff I said about McGonagall on that day I was annoyed at her for taking five marks off my assignment against me! He can blackmail me! Oh, Harry, you’ve got to get it back!” Her eyes were shining with tears, and Harry grimaced. The idea of Malfoy having that book was nasty enough without Hermione getting all weepy about it.

“How am I supposed to get it back?” Harry asked.

“Just ask him if he has it,” she begged.

“You know what an arse he is, Hermione, he’ll hardly just give it back!”

“You can always threaten to beat his head in if he doesn’t,” Ron suggested brightly. “Oooh, and let me help.”

***

Harry waited until the evening, when he knew the Slytherin team would be practicing. Then, wearing his crimson and gold scarf to ward off the autumn chill, he left the castle and made his way to the pitch, climbing up to the stands to sit and wait for the practice to be over so he could ask Malfoy about the book. He didn’t expect a straight answer, just as he didn’t expect to escape this without a thousand insults against his mother, father, parentage in general, intelligence, and worthiness as a human being. However, he was feeling confrontational himself and looked forward to unleashing that on Malfoy, who was always good for that sort of thing.

It wasn’t long before the Slytherin team noticed him sitting there and Zabini, the captain, flew over to hover near, scowling. “What are you doing here, Potter?” he snarled. “Spying on our team?”

Harry laughed. “If I was going to spy on you, I’d do it from my tower where it’s warmer, and I certainly wouldn’t do it on your team. I’d choose a team I could learn something from.”

Zambini growled some sort of insult that Harry didn’t catch. “What do you want then?” He asked finally.

“To talk to Malfoy, actually. Whenever you guys are done.”

Zambini looked startled, and then he smirked. After all, it was unseemly for one team captain to beat up another, especially when one of those captains was a lanky, awkward, speccy git like Potter. It was quite another story to allow one seeker to beat up another. It was almost expected. “Practice is finished now anyway,” he said, his eyes guarded, a tight smirk on his lips. “I’ll tell Malfoy you’re waiting.”

Malfoy laughed when Zambini gave him the message, but Harry didn’t care. He had climbed down from the stands and was waiting on the ground when Malfoy, who took his time, finally landed and sauntered over.

“What?” he asked, mild curiosity the only emotion in his tone, though amusement glittered in his eyes.

“You took it, didn’t you? Our book.”

Malfoy looked thoughtful for a moment, as if considering whether or not to confess or not. Finally, he smirked. “It was quite a disappointing read.”

“I want it back.”

“You’ll have to find it.”

“Give it to me.”

“Nothing is ever that easy, Potter.”

Harry smiled grimly. “Give it back, Malfoy, because your entire team left you and we’re the only ones out here and if I were to attack you this time, you wouldn’t have your precious Slytherins to protect you.”

“Ouch, Potter, I’m very nearly scared,” Malfoy snickered. “You’ll have to find it. I want you to find it.”

“Malfoy—”

But Malfoy, laughing as if he knew some great inner joke that Harry was too thick to catch on to, hopped back on his broomstick and took off into the sky, flying back towards the castle. Soon Harry was alone on the pitch as the sun started to set.

“Bloody prat,” he mumbled to himself. “He wants me to find it? How am I supposed to do that if he doesn’t tell me where it is?”

***

It shouldn’t have taken him as long as it did to figure out where Malfoy had put the book, but he wasn’t used to having to decipher riddles from Malfoy. Usually all he needed to figure out after a discussion with the Slytherin was whether or not his mother, father, intelligence, looks, or friends had been insulted, or rather to what degree, as the insults were almost a certainty. He managed to figure things out shortly after he had finished his homework and gone to bed.

Malfoy had basically told him where to find it, after all, though he had been drunk at the time and Harry hadn’t been sure he would be able to remember it in the morning.

Unwilling to listen to Hermione over breakfast the next morning, worriedly predicting the consequences, should any of the professors find the notebook, Harry snuck out of bed, grabbed his invisibility cloak, and hurried from the room.

It was only a quick jog to the hollow tree, and Harry smiled grimly as he peered into the hole. The notebook was there, and he pulled it out, turning to hurry back to bed. The wind was cold and he didn’t want to be out any longer than necessary.

Something made him pause, however. There was something else in the hollow and Harry grabbed his wand. “Lumos,” he whispered, squinting into the dark crevice as his wand began to glow. Malfoy had removed his stash of whiskey as he had promised, but now there was a quill and some ink lying in the hollow.

“A quill?” Harry whispered out loud. “Like he’s expecting a reply?”

Eyes widening a tiny bit, he flipped to the last page that had been written on, scanning it quickly in the light of his wand.

Hermione had scribbled a message there and it read, “Harry! I can’t believe you’d do something so reckless that once again put you in the hospital wing! But then, everyone knows you’d give your life if it meant winning a Quidditch game. I missed you in Charms today, and picked up your homework. Ron’s being annoying; I think he misses you too, though he won’t say it. Get well soon! He’s never this insufferable when you’re around!”

In the margin, Ron had scribbled, “Insufferable?? Shut up, Hermione! But I do wish you were here, Harry. It’s boring without you.”

Harry easily recognized Hermione’s careful writing and Ron’s scrawl. The elegant writing below that made him scowl, however. Malfoy had written in the book.

“Cute, Potter. Here I was, expecting a deep, thoughtful look into the inner workings of The Mind of the Boy Who Lived, and instead, I got a mess of doodles and class notes Granger was too frightened to actually pass in class. Lovely. It almost makes me wish I were worthy enough to belong to this exclusive little club of yours. Then again—No, it really doesn’t. You realize that if I ever respected you before, even as a worthy enemy, this has totally destroyed that, don’t you?”

Harry flipped through the entire book, and on nearly every page, in the same elegant writing, there was a sarcastic comment about the entry or the drawing. On the page where Hermione had gone on about what she thought the Death Eaters were planning (which included various unlikely plots such as taking over the word through subliminal messages disseminated through owl post), he had written, “I sincerely hope you are not the brains in this group, Granger.” On the page where Ron had drawn an elaborate picture of Malfoy kissing Snape’s ass, he had written, “You wish, Weasley. Kindly refrain from involving me in anymore of your sexual fantasies, because if my real self finds it this nauseating, I bet the me you dreamed up found it even more distasteful.”

There was a large part of the journal that talked about Sirius, and Harry scanned it worriedly, suddenly sick that Malfoy now knew information that could possibly get Sirius caught again, or get him and Dumbledore in trouble. However, there were no comments there, and Harry could only hope that Malfoy had skipped these pages. With a shaking hand, he tore out the pages and crumpled them in his fist.

All the way through, on every page. At first, Harry felt violated. That git had gotten to read all of their private thoughts, had sullied them with his Slytherin ink and his sarcastic comments. Had somehow managed to worm his way into the one thing that had belonged to the three of them solely, that no one else was supposed to even know about.

He slammed the book shut, his fingers tracing the front cover where Hermione had carefully etched her name. Malfoy had removed the letters and instead, written his own, in a final show of ownership, as if he had conquered it, claimed it, made it his. And Harry was furious. He grabbed the quill and ink from the hollow and sat on the roots of the tree, leaning back against the trunk. Intending to write something scathing, he flipped to the last page again and lifted the quill to his lip, narrowing his eyes as he tried to decide where to begin.

He dipped the quill into the ink and then, in the light given off by his glowing wand, he brought the quill to the page.

And then, Harry couldn’t refrain a smile. After all, if he forgot, for a moment, that it was Malfoy who had made the comments, they were quite funny, and very true as well. Most of the stuff in the book was pointless, stupid, and boring. Who wouldn’t have mocked it?

Not knowing what he was going to say, Harry was faintly surprised as he replied to the Slytherin’s last note. “You’re just annoyed that Ron’s drawings of you made you look a thousand times worse than you look in real life.” He frowned. Implying that Malfoy was anything less than the lopsided hunchback he appeared to be in Ron’s drawings was hardly a good place to start. Still, he continued. “How do you know the inner workings of my mind aren’t just a collection of childish doodles and notes anyway? Don’t mock what you don’t understand. But then, you’ve always been good for that, haven’t you? ”

He chewed on the quill absently, rereading what Malfoy had written and then his own reply. The tip of the quill had just been sharpened, and it slashed his lower lip. He yelped at the sting, sucking his lip into his mouth as he examined the nib, rubbing his index finger carefully against it. The sharp edge easily cut deep into his fingertip and blood welled out of the cut, dribbling down his finger and dripping all over his lap. He dropped the quill, hissing at the stinging pain in his finger, and it landed on the blood-splattered ground beside the pot of ink, which had been hit by a few falling drops as well. Grabbing his wand and muttering a First Level Healing spell, he easily healed the cut, scowling. He hadn’t gotten any blood on the journal, which was lucky, but his hands were stained with it.

Picking up the journal, quill, and ink, he put all three back in the hollow and, absently wondering what he was doing and why, he returned to the castle.

At first, he considered waking Ron up and telling him about the hollow and the journal, but it was quite late, and he decided he could just as easily tell him in the morning.

Still wondering why he hadn’t just taken the journal from the hollow and returned it to Hermione in the morning, Harry finally drifted off into a heavy sleep.

***

Harry had every intention of telling Hermione what had happened to the book the next morning, but instead, he overslept, had to skip breakfast, and barely made it to Potions in time. Bursting into the classroom, panting and flushed, he had just slid into his seat when Professor Snape arrived.

“You were nearly late,” Hermione pointed out, but Harry didn’t hear. He was too busy scowling at Malfoy, who had turned around to smirk at him.

“Why does he keep doing that?” Ron whispered, irritated.

“What?” Harry shot him a startled glance.

“Malfoy. He keeps looking at you, all superior-like.”

“He’s always done that,” Harry replied, feeling strangely flustered.

“Not like that,” Ron argued, still whispering, while Snape got the supplies out to finish yesterday’s Gobbler’s Ink. “It’s like he’s set some giant trap and is only waiting for you to step into it. I’d be careful if I were you, Harry. Honestly.”

Harry rolled his eyes and waved off Ron’s concern, feeling rather guilty over the incident with the book now, and deciding not to tell Ron and Hermione what he had done. Instead, he’d go down to the hollow as soon as he had a free moment, and retrieve the book, use magic to erase Malfoy’s writing, and it would be like the entire thing had never happened.

As they left potions, Hermione grabbed Harry’s arm. “Harry,” she said. “Did you find the book?”

“Uhh, no,” Harry replied, not meeting her eyes. He was suddenly aware of someone watching him and glanced up. Over Hermione’s shoulder, he could see Malfoy watching him, a strange look in his eyes. Just to unnerve the Slytherin, Harry grinned. The other boy actually stumbled a bit, his eyes widening a fraction, and then he scowled darkly and turned the corner.

“What are you smiling at?” Hermione snapped, turning around to glare at the backs of the departing students. “This isn’t something to laugh at, Harry. It’s worse than I thought it was, honestly, don’t you remember? We talked about Snuffles in that book! What if someone—”

“They won’t,” Harry said firmly. “Trust me. Nothing will happen to S—to Snuffles. I promise you that.”

She didn’t look sure, and Ron, who’d been delayed in the classroom being lectured by Snape and losing god knows how many house points, hurried into the hall, scowling. “C’mon, Harry, Divination next,” he panted, jerking his head. “And you know that means if we don’t hurry, we’ll be late, and Trelawney’ll spend the first half of the class telling you that you’re going to be attacked by a thousand garden gnomes who’ll delight in tearing you apart with their teeth or something.”

He hurried away and, with a reassuring smile for Hermione, Harry said, “Trust me, it’ll be fine, Hermione. I’ll take care of it.” Then he took off after Ron, leaving Hermione, looking disgruntled and irritated, to go to Arithmancy by herself.

***

Harry had an hour after his last class and before Quidditch practice, and he used this to run down to the hollow, intent on grabbing the book, erasing the evidence, and giving it back to Hermione at dinner. However, the words scrawled in green ink at the back made him freeze.

“You ripped out the stuff about Sirius, Potter, how disappointing. That was the best part of this entire book.”

Malfoy had read the parts about Sirius. Nervousness made his hands tremble as Harry scribbled back a reply. “If you tell anyone, Malfoy, I’ll kill you. I swear, I’ll kill you. Swear you won’t tell, give me your word, or I swear…”

He dropped the book back in the hollow and grimly went to the Quidditch pitch for practice.

A nervous ball of energy had coiled in his stomach, almost like a snake, that kept him jumpy for the rest of the day as he waited for Aurors and Dementors to descend upon the castle and drag him and Dumbledore off to Azkaban in punishment for helping Sirius escape. They’d be tortured until he told where Sirius was currently hiding; he knew they would, and he was worried that he’d crack and tell them.

But dinner came and went and the sun set, and still, nothing happened.

Harry snuck out alone, telling Hermione and Ron that he needed to go find Professor Flitwick and ask for help on his homework, just before bedtime. It was a feeble excuse, especially considering that Hermione could have helped just as well as Flitwick, but the nervous tick Harry had developed in his left eye convinced Ron and Hermione to let it go and let him leave unquestioned.

He hurried out of the castle and straight to the hollow. His hands were shaking so badly that he could hardly hold the book and his glowing wand at the same time.

Malfoy’s reply was messier than normal, and short. He had obviously been in a hurry, and the idea of him sneaking about and running to the hollow to read his own replies made Harry dizzy and strangely pleased at the same time.

“My word, Potter? What good would my word be? Surely you wouldn’t trust my word.”

He picked up the quill and scribbled, “Not your word, but the word of a Malfoy. Surely you have some family code about keeping your word. Promise me.”

Still nervous, but feeling a bit better at the knowledge that Malfoy hadn’t told yet, Harry returned to his dorm, finished his homework, and went to sleep.

***

Promise me. For a long while, under the light of the golden moon, Draco stared at the strange words, twirling the quill between his fingers. A promise to Harry Potter? He didn’t owe Potter a thing, let alone something as personal as a promise.

But the chance to have something to give, if only for the satisfaction of having something to take away later, made it worth it, and Draco smiled a little, and replied.

“Calm down, Potter, before you give yourself a nosebleed. We do have a family code about keeping our word, yes, but only if it serves us to keep it. But I’ll give you my word. Besides, it’s hardly as if I care about the life and times of some fugitive from Azkaban. You keeping his secrets, however, that intrigues me. He did, after all, kill your parents. But I confess to not caring overly much. Contrary to what you may think, the entire world doesn’t sit on the edge of their seats waiting in suspense to learn about the sordid little criminal secrets of Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived. There are other things to think about, you know.”

He waited a few seconds for the ink to dry and then closed the book, slipping it carefully back into the hollow and lying the quill and ink on top.

He checked his watch, made sure enough time had gone by for Pansy and Crabbe to be done with their nearly nightly ritual of shagging rather loudly, and started back to the castle.

His dorm room was quiet; Pansy must have snuck back to her own room by now, and Draco got ready for bed, leaving his robes in a messy pile at the foot of his bed. That was one of his secrets, actually. The fact that he hardly gave a damn about things being neat and orderly and perfect. There were more important things to think about. Which was why his father, always concerned with public appearance, had enchanted all his robes to fold themselves in the middle of the night and stack themselves neatly in his chest of dirty laundry.

Silently, with a soft whisper of fabric, his robes started doing just that, but Draco didn’t notice. He’d already fallen asleep.

***

They were finishing up Gobbler’s Ink in Potions class the next day and Draco was sitting in the second row beside Blaise, who was snickering under his breath as he drew lurid, naked pictures of Lavender Brown on his parchment.

Professor Snape was just finishing up the ink he’d been brewing for the last few days and Draco watched with rather detached interest. He already knew most of the seventh year potions as he had excelled at Potions all through school and had been bored over the summer, studying them on his own. It had been more interesting than following the house elves around the manor looking for spots they had missed while scrubbing the floors, at any rate.

Draco only started paying complete attention near the end of the class, when Snape snapped, “Mister Potter. Not paying attention again? But then, obviously, as you demonstrated a few days ago, your knowledge of Gobbler’s Ink is extensive.” Draco smirked, turning around to watch Harry’s face slowly turn red.

“I’m sorry, professor,” Harry said, casting a sullen glare at Draco. “I dropped my quill.”

Snape was smiling grimly. “But you were paying attention?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling the class what the first property of Gobbler’s Ink is?” Snape asked coolly. Draco glanced back at Harry and smirked again.

“Uhh… I don’t recall, sir,” Harry mumbled.

“Please, sir, I know it!” Hermione cried, putting her hand up. “The first property of Gobbler’s—”

“Do shut up, Miss Granger,” Snape barked, turning away. Draco put up his own hand. “Yes, Mister Malfoy? Perhaps you can enlighten us?”

“The first property of Gobbler’s Ink is that, when made with the blood of an enemy, it works like the Imperius Curse. It makes the writer follow the orders of his enemy whose blood is in the ink, and the more you it is used, the stronger and more powerful the effects,” Draco quoted smoothly.

Snape smiled. “Very good, Draco. Ten points from Gryffindor for disrupting me once again, and twenty to Slytherin for showing Gryffindor how they ought to act in my classroom.”

Draco felt both Potter and Granger’s eyes glaring into the back of his head, but didn’t turn around. He was smiling widely, however, and feeling rather smug, both of which lasted until Potions ended and he walked out of the dungeons. Crabbe, who had decided that morning that he was too sick to go to class, was waiting in the hall, and his face was pale, his eyes bloodshot and red with tears.

“Oh, bloody hell,” Draco muttered. “What is it?”

“Pansy!” Crabbe cried. “She broke up with me.”

Elation at the possibility of not having to wait for Crabbe and Pansy to finish shagging before he could go to bed filled him, but he restrained a sunny smile. Crabbe was, after all, a friend of sorts. He glanced over at Pansy, who was talking and giggling with Millicent and some of the younger girls as they walked down the hall, and then turned back to Crabbe. “You’re worth more than she is anyway,” he said loyally. Loyalty, after all, was another Malfoy Family Trait. Another one of those traits that only lasted as long as they were useful.

“But I loved her!” Crabbe cried.

“Alright, alright, calm down, do you want me to talk to her for you?” Draco sighed, and Goyle nodded eagerly.

“I’ll talk to her,” Goyle offered. It wasn’t often that he spoke, and when he did, it wasn’t to offer something intelligent to the conversation.

“No, you’ll just mess it up, I want Draco do to it,” Crabbe argued. “Fine,” Draco said, trying to avoid yet another fight between Crabbe and Goyle that he would have to mediate. “I’ll talk to her for you.”

“Oh, bother,” Ron called loudly as he, Harry, and Hermione finally filed out of the Potions dungeon. “I had wondered what that smell was.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed incredulously and he turned to face Weasley, a vaguely amused smirk on his face. “Weasel, are you implying that Crabbe, Goyle, and I smell foully? Because, honestly, as far as insults go, that was pretty weak.”

“And uncalled for,” Crabbe agreed.

Potter was carefully concealing his emotions, though Draco, studying his face, suddenly wondered if perhaps Potter found his friend’s awkward insult as pathetic as he had. There was a tightness in the other boy’s lips that seemed to indicate that he was hiding a smile, or even a smirk. “Ron, let’s go,” the dark-haired boy said, sliding his eyes away from his rival. Draco didn’t notice; for some reason, he was still studying Potter’s mouth, probably only because he knew it would make him nervous. Yes, just because of that. Proof that it was working, Potter’s tongue flicked out and licked his dried lips nervously. Draco’s eyes flicked away and he smiled.

“No,” Granger argued, which was enough even to surprise Draco. Usually she was the first one to back away from a confrontation with him. He forced himself to turn way from Potter and pay attention to the conversation. “I want to talk to you.” She pointed at Draco, her eyes dark with fury.

“With me?” Draco asked, amused. “What have you got to say, little Mudblood?”

Weasley growled low in his throat and would have snapped something in reply if Potter hadn’t shaken his head so firmly, again drawing Draco’s gaze. “I want my book back,” Granger snarled. “I know you stole it, in the hospital wing. I’ve searched all over for it, and I want it back.”

Draco smiled and opened his mouth to reply, but Potter beat him to it. “He doesn’t have it. Hermione, Malfoy doesn’t have it.”

Again, Draco was surprised, and he glanced at Potter but didn’t speak, waiting to see what his game was. Granger’s hands flew to her hips. “Then where is it?”

Draco didn’t take his gaze away from Potter’s face, so he saw as the boy struggled to think up a compelling lie. Finally, even if the whole idea of Potter lying to his best friends for him, Draco Malfoy, The Enemy, was quite amusing, Draco decided to help him out. He didn’t bother to consider why he’d even consider such a thing. “I burnt it,” he lied, and it was Potter’s turn to look startled. Draco smiled cruelly. “Your stupid journal’s gone, Granger, let it go. Honestly, it was an immature hobby anyway, and I destroyed it.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because it was yours and I wanted to,” Draco replied with an easy shrug.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Weasley sneered.

“Look, let’s just go. The journal’s gone, I saw Malfoy light it on fire,” Potter said suddenly, grabbing Granger’s arm. His face looked grimly determined now, and once again, Draco couldn’t look away. It was like staring out a window during a thunderstorm, watching all the emotions pass over Potter’s face. Morbidly fascinating. A

Malfoy would never be so transparent. “Let’s go, Ron, we’ve got to get to Divination.”

“You saw him?” Hermione asked, scowling. “Then why didn’t you stop him?”

Potter was backing away down the hall, and Draco watched, intrigued. His face had gone a strange shade of red, all because he was lying to his friends. It was interesting, Draco never had that much trouble lying to anyone, whether they be his friends or enemies. “You didn’t want any teachers finding it, and I figured it was for the best!” was Potter’s answer. “Ron, come on!”

With one last hateful glare, Weasley took off down the hall after his friend, and Granger, still mumbling to herself, followed.

“You’re still going to talk to her, right?” Crabbe asked.

Draco blinked. He’d forgotten Crabbe and Goyle were there. “What?”

“Pansy. You’re still going to talk to her, right?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. I suppose.”

“We’re going to be late for Defense Against The Dark Arts,” Goyle announced suddenly.

Draco scowled. He hated being late. “Then stop slowing me down,” he snapped, pushing past them and leading the way to their next class.

2 

Take your time, if I'm lying to you,
I know you'll find that you believe me, you believe me
Feel the sun on your face and tell me what you're thinking
Catch the snow on your tongue and show me how it tastes
Take my hand and if I'm lying to you, I'll always be alone,
if I'm lying to you

-- ‘Take My Hand’, Dido

Harry snuck out at lunch to check the book. He was nervous about what Malfoy was going to say about how he had lied to Hermione about it and couldn’t stomach the idea of suffering through his afternoon classes not knowing.

He hurriedly flipped open to the last page.

“Perhaps you should take lessons from me, Potter, and learn to PAY ATTENTION IN CLASS. You wouldn’t get yelled at half as much as you do. But I do enjoy that startled, pale look you get on your face whenever Snape catches you daydreaming. However, I don’t enjoy that look nearly as much as the red and patchy one you get when lying to Granger. Amusing, Potter, very amusing.”

Harry couldn’t help it; he smiled a little. “Trouble in Slytherin Paradise, I see, between Pansy and Crabbe? Heartbreaking, really. I was going to nominate them for Best Couple at the Halloween Ball. And as for paying attention in Potions, if Snape weren’t such a dull and boring professor, and Potions not such a dull and boring class, perhaps I would pay attention more. As it is, I don’t think it’s worth my time. At least you should thank me for providing you with a new excuse to toady to the greasy git.”

He slipped the book back and ran all the way back to the castle, wondering why he was sneaking around writing to Draco Malfoy, and wondering even more why… why he sort of liked it. It was something that was his that he didn’t have to share. Everything else was public, everything from the time he was one year old on had become public knowledge, and he had nothing that was not partially owned by Hermione and Ron or his Quidditch team or his aunt and uncle. But this was his. Well, his and Malfoy’s.

Which was altogether too disturbing to think about.

***

The next morning at breakfast, Hermione triumphantly pulled a notebook from her bag. It had a purple cover and was covered in huge outlines of daisies.

“What,” Ron asked in horror, staring at the nearly glowing cover, “is that?”

“Well, since Malfoy destroyed our other book,” she shot a quick glare at Harry, “I got a new one we can use. I already started writing in it.” She flipped open the cover. “It’s a list of things we’ve got to do to get ready for the Halloween Ball.”

“Things we’ve got to do?” Ron asked, scowling. “I was thinking of just… showing up. Maybe. If I felt like it. Which I probably won’t.”

Hermione glared. “It’s a costume ball, Ron, you can’t just show up, you’ve got to wear a costume.”

Harry slid the notebook across the table, reading over the list in horror. “Hermione, this is ridiculous. No one needs this much time to come up with a costume.”

She grinned. “But I figure we could do something amazing, something that makes a statement. We could all go as house elves, only wrap ourselves in chains. Or we could all go as garden gnomes, but black and blue to symbolize bruises.”

“Oh c’mon, Hermione, that’s gross.” Ron rolled his eyes. “I thought this whole idea of a costume party was bad enough without turning it into a public statement.”

“I’m not going,” Harry declared.

Hermione’s eyes widened. “You’ve got to go, Harry!”

“Why?” He shrugged. “I’ve got to… study.” He hoped fervently that she would be satisfied with that. It was only a small lie. He just didn’t want to go.

“Study,” Ron repeated. He grinned. “And I’ve got to help him. We’ve got a huge…Divination exam the next day. Yeah.”

Hermione’s eyes were narrow slits now, and her voice acidic. “Do what you wish, I couldn’t care less. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to go do some studying in the library before class. One of you take the book and write in it, so I’ll have something to read in Charms. That class is frightfully boring now that I’ve memorized the textbook.”

She swept away and Harry looked down at the purple notebook in distaste. Ron nudged it closer to him. “Go on then, Harry,” he said with a smirk. “You take it.”

Rolling his eyes, Harry took the book and put it with his others.

***

Potions is boring, Harry had written in Hermione’s book. He paused, chewing the end of his quill and looking thoughtful. He couldn’t think of anything to write. Oddly enough, writing in this purple monstrosity of a book seemed rather empty. He had liked writing in the other book, found it amusing then, but now, it seemed rather pointless. After all, he’d be talking to Hermione and Ron in a minute or two anyway.

Scoffing softly in annoyance, he slammed the book shut. Hermione was just going to have to find her own entertainment in Charms class.

After Potions, he tossed the book at Hermione, mumbled some excuse, and took off running out of the castle and into the trees. He only had a few minutes before his next class, but he had to check the hollow.

There wasn’t a reply, and he was disappointed. As it was, he was late for Divination anyway, and Trelawney had already started the lesson. She watched him woefully as he ran, gasping for breath, into the class, sliding into a seat beside Ron.

“Harry,” she said, gently chiding. “I shall forgive your lateness, but only because I understand the cause. You are undergoing an important life change, child. But don’t worry; it happens to everyone.”

Rather than waste his time trying to figure out what she was talking about, Harry pulled out a quill and parchment. Trelawney went back to teaching, and Harry tried to catch his breath.

Ron slipped the notebook onto his desk. Where were you? he had written.

Harry glanced at him and then back at the notebook, swallowing down his guilt. Forgot something in the common room, he scribbled, passing the notebook back. Ron scowled at him but didn’t reply, and after class, Harry didn’t give him time to ask any more questions. He hurried out of the tower before Ron had even finished packing up his books. He didn’t want to have to answer any more questions because he didn’t like lying to his friend and he knew that he certainly couldn’t tell Ron the truth. Ron would think it meant something other than what it did mean. And what did it mean? He wasn’t quite sure. That he and Malfoy still hated each other and had decided to fight through writing rather than talking, so as not to disturb any more professors or get in any more trouble? Maybe. Hopefully.

***

I suppose you could call it trouble in Slytherin Paradise, Potter, if you call Crabbe and Pansy shagging some sort of paradise, which I certainly don’t. Apparently she is in love with someone else, or so she says. Quite tragic, especially considering who it is she claims to like. See, this is why I don’t believe in love. It’s rubbish, all of it. Especially if she can love someone like HIM. It’s quite disturbing, though you probably wouldn’t agree, should I tell you who it is she claims to like. I’ve seen the way you look at him, Potter, and do believe there is more going on between you two than you like to admit.

Harry’s eyes widened. “What the hell?” he whispered to himself, twirling the quill and trying to figure out exactly what it was Malfoy was implying. “Who is it? Though I can understand her falling for someone else, I mean, being with Crabbe must have been rather redundant and irritating, he’s not much for intelligent conversation, is he? There are only a few people I could see as not being a step up from Crabbe… and yes, Malfoy, you’re one of them.

And as for not believing in love…it’s rather sad, isn’t it, to be this young and have already lost faith in it. I believe in it, and I’ve never really been in love, so you shouldn’t give up--”

Harry paused, eyes widening. Giving Malfoy advice on love? Oh, no. Ridiculous. He scribbled it out quickly. “I don’t believe in love either. Rubbish and a waste of time besides. As long as I’ve got Quidditch to occupy my mind, I’m happy. I can’t see how life would be better with someone to give chocolates to and… you know, puppies and love sonnets and that sort of thing. I’d be embarrassed to be in love.”

Stashing the book and the quill back in the hollow, he walked slowly back to the castle, shivering from the chill.

***

Draco laughed when he read what Potter had written. “Stupid git,” he commented out loud, still amused. “Lower than Vincent, am I? Come on, now, Potter, that was rather clumsy, wasn’t it? Do try to make your insults a bit more gracefully constructed, it pains me to have to read through your clumsy attempts at cleverness. And as for the unlucky chap whom Pansy claims to be in love with, I certainly can’t betray my house’s secrets to YOU, Potter. It just wouldn’t be right.

As for the rest of it… well, I’ve always rather suspected that you and your broomstick had a SPECIAL relationship. Saw you polishing it on the Quidditch stands one day, I was quite, erm…DISTURBED to see the way you handled it. You stroked it like it was…well… Let me just say, Potter, that I think you’ve got some issues that a girlfriend might be able to help with! At least it’ll save me from ever having to watch you and your broomstick bond with oil in public. Honestly, Potter, some things are just not meant to be done in public!”

He slipped the book back and walked back to the castle, laughing a little. It was amusing, really, despite all the reasons why it should have been deadly serious. It was Potter, after all, and every thing they’d ever shared had been spiteful and furious. This didn’t fall into that category, however; or at least, it didn’t anymore. At the beginning, it was about violating something sacred between Potter and his friends. Now… something else. Though certainly not something pleasant. Certainly. Except that he had the odd feeling that the last half of his note had been less spiteful and more…teasing than it should have been. Besides, he really hadn’t minded watching Potter polish his broom. He’d found it oddly… fascinating. Morbidly fascinating, of course, and only because Potter had been so absorbed in it. Certainly not because of his fingers and the way they —

Draco scowled. “Of course not.”

Pansy was sitting alone in the common room, sobbing, when Draco stepped inside. He inwardly winced, taking a deep, bracing breath, and asked, “Pansy, love, what’s wrong?” in his sweetest, most caring voice. After all, if Slytherins couldn’t be sweet to each other, who could they be sweet to?

She lifted her head, which had been buried in her hands. “Draco? Oh, Draco, it’s terrible,” she wailed.

He sat beside her and patted her shoulder. “What’s terrible? Did something happen?”

“Yes. It’s Vincent, he’s so furious. Did you tell him—”

“I didn’t tell him anything,” Draco lied. “Did he do something?”

“He said that if I didn’t fall back in love with him, he’d tell — he’d tell everyone that I like—”

The situation had just turned dire. If anyone found out who exactly it was that Pansy had convinced herself she was in love with, the Slytherin reputation would be at risk. Hell, it would be ruined. After all, Slytherins did not go about expressing undying love for Gryffindors. It just wasn’t done.

“He won’t tell a soul,” Draco said, his eyes hard. “Trust me, Pansy, he won’t tell a soul.”

“I’ve tried not to like him, Draco, really I have!” she sniffled now. “But then in Potions, he leant me a quill when mine got all mangled because I had forgotten that I wasn’t to chew them unless they were sugar quills, like you told me, and he was so sweet to point out that I’d gotten ink on my lips, and even to spell it out for me when I forgot the cleansing incantation. And when I thanked him, he smiled and it was that adorable crooked smile and—”

“I thought you said you were going to stop liking him,” Draco snapped, sickened at the mental images her gushing words were evoking. “We’d decided that it wasn’t good for the house.”

At this, Pansy’s eyes went wide and shining. A heartfelt sigh welled up in her throat. “But, oh, Draco, I can’t help it!”

Feeling rather nauseous, Draco suggested, “Perhaps there is a potion we can have Pomfrey make for you?”

She scowled. “I wouldn’t give this up for the world, Draco! It’s like there are a thousand butterflies in my stomach all fluttering about nervously in hopes that he will look at me tomorrow morning and smile again! It’s the most exquisite feeling, I just can’t—”

He clapped one hand over her mouth. “If I hear one more stupidly sugary word out of your mouth about butterflies, love, Gryffindors, or Weasleys, I swear, Pansy, I’ll put such a curse on you that you won’t even know what hit you,” he snarled, patience finally running out.

Her eyes were huge and she swallowed loudly, nodding against his hand. He smiled grimly in satisfaction, taking his hand away. “But Draco,” she said in a tiny voice. “I can’t help it.”

“Honestly, Pansy, I’m beginning to think you’d be less annoying if you were with the stupid prat rather than mooning about him in our common room. At least then you’d be gushing on to him rather than to me!” An idea had slowly unfurled itself in his mind and he greeted it with streamers and confetti. It was a way to make the talk of butterflies and crooked smiles stop at least, and that had suddenly become more of a priority, even more important than what was best for the house. After all, his health depended on making Pansy stop her disgusting moping. If he had to listen to one more sappy, love-struck word from her, he’d vomit and never stop. And that had to be bad for his health. Besides, on the upside, Crabbe wouldn’t have anyone to shag until all hours of the night if Pansy was off with someone else.

“What am I going to do?” she said now, shoulders slumped.

“Well…” Draco drew the word out thoughtfully. “Have you considered talking to him about it?”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Talking to him? But Draco, he’s a Gryffindor!”

Draco grimaced and then said, “Yes, but we certainly cannot populate the word with pure blooded wizards relying solely on the gene pool of our own house, after all. I mean, honestly, inbreeding would soon become a problem, and the whole idea of people only dating within their own house is, when you think about it, ridiculous. Besides, the Weasleys are a…a pure-blooded…respectable…” Each word burned his throat, “old family.”

“You’ll let me?” she asked, leaping up from her seat. “You’ll let me see him?”

“Since when have I been the one to grant permission?” Draco asked dryly.

“Oh, don’t be silly, Draco, you’ve always been the head of our house, you know you have. No one would dare do anything without your permission. You know what’s best for us.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t reply, feeling thoroughly greasy from her gushing words. “So just go talk to him. What do I care? Just don’t let him in our common room, of course, and any shagging—” he was nearly sick again “– must be done in his room, not in yours. I refuse to let a Gryffindor into our dungeons, under any circumstances.”

“Of course,” she said, eyes clouded with other worries. “But Draco, what if he doesn’t even like me?” She would have gone into a tearful, depressed monologue of self-doubt, but Draco held up one hand in surrender.

“I’ll… I’ll work on it for you,” he offered, scowling. “As long as you don’t say another word about it, I’ll work on it.”

“Work on it? How?”

He grimaced. “I seem to have gained bit of sway over the Gryffindors recently,” he admitted, rolling his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”

***

Harry didn’t have time after class to check the hollow for a reply, because he had scheduled Quidditch practice right after class in preparation for the rematch between Gryffindor and Slytherin that had been scheduled for Friday, two days away. Slytherin had scheduled the pitch for practice on Thursday, so it was their last chance to practice before the match. They practiced until it grew too dark to see and, exhausted, changed, showered, and went back to Gryffindor Tower to quickly finish their homework. By the time he’d finished scribbling a bunch of Divination rubbish, Harry was so exhausted that he could only barely manage to stumble up the stairs to his dorm room and collapse into bed.

He woke up sometime in the early morning hours, chased from sleep by vaguely unsettling dreams he could not remember. Sitting up and groggily reaching for his glasses, he glanced around the dorm room, but everyone else was sleeping.

Knowing he probably wouldn’t get back to sleep for a while, Harry crawled out of bed with the intention of going to the owlery to send off his latest letter to Sirius, stop by the kitchens for a snack, and maybe head out to the hollow to write a reply to Malfoy.

It was to be an exercise of self-will, to see if he could finish his other tasks before dashing out to the hollow. He had to prove to himself that he was not addicted to this… That he didn’t need—

“Oh, bloody hell,” Harry growled. “Who cares?”

He went straight to the hollow.

It was a cold night and he shivered in his pajamas, casting a soft warming spell. He was in a rather thoughtful, solemn mood, and twirled the quill absently as he read what Malfoy had written.

“It’s a bloody cold night,” he wrote in reply, “but I couldn’t sleep. Strange dreams. Don’t know why I’m even out here, and I don’t even know why I’m writing in here. Maybe so that I can think of more ‘clumsy’ and ‘graceless’ insults to attack you with only so that in the morning you can come here and tell me how I am worthless because I don’t have your Slytherinish sense of sarcasm and wit. But then I suppose I’d have to reply with something to the effect of ‘so?’, because, as I’ve mentioned, Gryffindors such as myself lack the particular skill of sarcasm. So what’s the point, Malfoy? What, really, is the point of this? Is there even one? A point to anything? Maybe the whole point is to perform whatever ‘destiny’ has set out for us. In that case, I shall fall in love with Ginny Weasley, be best friends with Hermione and Ron (who will one day fall in love with each other), stumble my way through my studies, become Quidditch Player Extraordinaire, and die at the hands of Voldemort as my father did. Oh. And you and I would hate each other bitterly until the end of time. Honestly, I don’t think I like having my entire life left up to fate. But then those of us with destinies cannot fight the inevitable, can we?

“On a more amusing note (yes, the images you created for me of me and my broomstick did make me laugh, by the way, you stupid prat. I didn’t know you watched me, if I did, I promise, I would have put on more of a show), SHOULD I end up married to Ginny Weasley, I’ll probably still have to rely on…umm, ‘polishing my own broomstick’, because she doesn’t seem the type to willing help with that. So I’m afraid my destiny decrees that my broomstick and I shall always be alone. Rather heroic. And Dumbledore thought the whole Boy-Who-Lived-Voldemort incident was heroic.”

He was snickering even as he finished it, glad to have had something break him out of his morose mood, even if it had been something Malfoy had said.

At lunch the next day, Harry didn’t bother to go to the Great Hall. He did not feel up to Hermione’s determination to discover what, exactly, it was that was bothering him, or Ron’s attempts to cheer him up by describing in vivid detail exactly how Gryffindor would slaughter Slytherin in the up-coming match.

After all, he’d heard it all before.

So instead, he wrapped his crimson and gold scarf around his neck and struck out for the hollow. There was a reply waiting there for him, written in familiar elegant script.

“… Well then. Love, I don’t believe in, Potter, but the very idea of your future as you laid it out in your last note…THAT I could see happening. It’s very amusing as well. As for me, my destiny is probably that I shall marry some gorgeous third cousin of mine, part Veela, from good breeding stock, who throws marvelous dinner parties, doesn’t like words that are more than three syllables long, and likes ballroom dancing and fancy-dress parties. So either way, I say fuck destiny. Just like love, I choose not to believe in it.

“And, oh, Potter, don’t get philosophical on me now, I don’t like it. Quite frankly, there is no point to this or life either, it’s all just a random chain of disconnected accidents that eventually lead to death. This is just another of those mistakes we’ll regret when we’re older. For now, it’s an easy way to pass the time… I mean, honestly, it’s a lot less time consuming than making sure I pass you in the hall to insult you between classes or trying to throw things at your head in potions.

“And besides… Who cares what fate has in store for you, Wonder Boy? You haven’t been doing too badly for yourself, being a ‘hero’ and a ‘celebrity’ and all. It’s quite disgusting. But then, the thing about fame is that anyone who doesn’t have it mopes about being unimportant and anyone who DOES have it mopes because of it. But shall I infer from your rather pathetic ramblings that you do not WISH to marry-and-have-red-haired-children? Why ever not? That Weasley girl is so… adequate. I do however agree that Weasley and Granger are certainly nauseating enough as just friends. And, as much as this pains me to suggest, perhaps you and I can come up with a compromise? You see, there is a favor I wish to ask of you… And trust me, as much as I hate Gryffindors as a whole, I hate you worst of all, so this pains me to ask more than it ever could for you to accept. And if the night was cold, this morning is doubly so. I think I can smell snow on the air. I loathe winter, and much prefer autumn. Something about the smell of falling leaves.”

Harry nearly dropped the quill; he was so surprised that Malfoy would ask anything of him. “A favor? What’s in it for me? And if my philosophic nature surprised you, Malfoy, imagine my horror at discovering you have a poetic side. ‘Smell snow on the air’? Snow doesn’t have a smell. And falling leaves smell like rot, death, and decay. Autumn is the nastiest month of all. Spring’s much better. Cleaner.”

He slipped the book back into its hiding place, smiling a little, his mood a little lighter, and feeling strangely excited as he wondered what, exactly, Malfoy thought to ask of him.

Classes that afternoon were long and he was restless throughout them. Hermione and Ron did not bother to ask him where he had been at lunch, though they did stare at him and whisper every now and again. He was not aware of it, however. He was not aware of much until in Care of Magical Creatures, his last class of the day, they were having an oral exam on the nature of Demiguises and Hagrid asked Malfoy for an answer.

“The first defense of a Demiguise?” Malfoy stammered, caught off guard. He hadn’t been paying attention. “Why… to run away. Isn’t it?”

“Honestly, Malfoy,” Harry drawled, startling even Hagrid. He usually didn’t speak out in class. “You expect one of the most difficult creatures to capture simply to run away? Its first defense is that it can turn invisible, it’s fur is spun into invisibility cloaks.”

Rather than scowl as he usually did, Malfoy shocked everyone, Harry included, by smiling knowingly, the smirk an answer to the challenge in Harry’s eyes.

After class, Harry returned to the hollow. Malfoy had not yet replied, but he scribbled, “ Perhaps you should take lessons from me, Malfoy, and learn to PAY ATTENTION IN CLASS.”

He walked away from the hollow humming softly to himself.

The Slytherins were already practicing for the next day’s match, and he paused before going inside to study Malfoy’s flying technique. Without the hangover, he was graceful and fast, nearly as fast as Harry himself was, and that was a worry, of course.

Except that at the moment, it seemed more like something to admire.

He stood there for a long while, watching Draco fly.

***

That night, after Draco had replied to Potter in the book, Draco sat in his common room, while the other Slytherins talked cheerfully of the first snowfall of the season, which had surprised everyone by coming so soon, and the Quidditch match the next day. Draco sat alone in front of the fire, watching the flames thoughtfully. If anyone had asked him what, exactly, he’d been thinking about, he wouldn’t have been able to reply, because he really wasn’t thinking of anything specific. He was just thinking obscure little thoughts that Potter, of course, would have called ‘poetic’, that were really just introspective. Guilty thoughts, mostly regarding Potter. It seemed wrong, somehow, to take advantage of things as they were now. However, it was too late to turn back. The spell had been cast, and if this was Potter’s Destiny, it was too late for Draco to stop it.

“Did you talk to him?” Pansy asked softly, coming to sit beside him. For a minute, Draco feared that she meant Potter, and he flushed.

“What?” he asked, stalling.

“Vincent. Did you talk to him?”

“Oh. Oh, no, I didn’t. I should though. I will.” He nodded.

She smiled in relief. “And… and did you talk to Ron?”

Draco’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Of course not. You couldn’t pay me enough to talk to Weasley. But I’m working on it, you’ll just have to trust me.”

She smiled, a bright and sunny smile that almost made her pretty, and shocked the hell out of him by hugging him suddenly. Nobody touched a Malfoy without permission. “Thank you,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. She’d hurried out of the common room before he could get over his shock and reprimand her.

Grimacing, Draco scrubbed his cheek with the back of his hand. “Disgusting,” he mumbled to himself. “What’s wrong with me? First shoving books down my trousers, then communicating to Potter through the damned thing, then offering to fix Pansy up with Weasley. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that stupid journal was cursed before I ever got my hands on it.”

“Draco?” Blaise asked, looking worried. “You’re not talking to yourself, are you?”

Draco laughed. “Of course not. Malfoys don’t talk to themselves.”

Blaise didn’t look convinced.

***

It was dark when Harry made his way to the hollow, the glowing light of his wand the only thing to guide him. It had started to snow a while earlier, tiny, icy droplets that stuck to his eyelashes. It was too early for snow.

He read Draco’s reply in the glowing light of his wand. “Of course winter has a smell, Potter. It smells like icicles and pine trees, the kind of coldness that tickles the back of your noise and makes your lips chap up; frost and cold fire. You’re less imaginative than I thought if you cannot imagine what winter smells like. Then again, Gryffindors aren’t known for their imagination. Smelling winter on the air is hardly poetic, Potter. You disappoint me if you think that is poetry.

“As for the favor… Perhaps with a little bit of cooperation, you and I can solve this issue of whether or not everything is accidental or led by fate. You see, you claim that it is ‘fated’ that Granger and Weasley end up together. I say that if they do, it is mere coincidence. Shall we dare to prove this fate thing of yours wrong?”

Harry considered for a moment, shivering, and then he replied, “Prove fate wrong? How do you propose we do this? Because even if we manage to prove it wrong, maybe it was fated that we do so? See? Everything in life is a consequence of a million things that have already happened and there is no way to prove that what does happen wasn’t fate. It DID happen, therefore it was supposed to happen. It’s not possible, Malfoy. But still, this favor you keep mentioning does intrigue me. What is it?

Oh, and on a side note, I refuse to believe that the Ever Estimable Malfoy’s lips EVER chap up, and if they do, the fact that they give off a distinctive odor while doing it disturbs me more than you will ever know.”

He hurried back to the castle, freezing, and back to his common room, quickly finishing his homework.

Later that night, Harry was sitting at the window in his dorm room. All his roommates were still in the common room, he could distantly hear their chatter and laughter, but he had developed a headache and, after taking a potion for it, come upstairs where it was quieter. He’d opened the window in his room, letting in the chilly air, and climbed up on the windowsill watching the tiny white drops twirling lazily from the dark sky.

He sniffed a few times, cautiously, but didn’t smell any difference in the air. No icicles, no pine, no cold fire. Just the rotting leaves of autumn that he hated. The smell of decay and rot.

Ron appeared then, in the doorway, beaming. There was always something about the first snowfall that brought out bright smiles and shining faces, childlike enthusiasm and excitement. “It’s snowing!” he cried. “I knew it was going to snow tonight, I could just smell it!”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not even November,” he said stiffly. “It’s too soon for snow, and it’ll mean bad conditions for Quidditch tomorrow.”

Ron shrugged. “It’ll probably be finished by then anyway, and first snowfalls never stick on the ground, so don’t worry about it. Besides, you can beat Slytherin, no matter what happens.”

“Yeah, like I did last time.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Malfoy was hung over, you told me that.”

Harry shrugged, not in the mood for Ron’s enthusiasm. He was feeling strangely thoughtful. “I guess. We’ll have to see what happens.”

Ron studied him in the darkness. “You alright? You’ve been acting strangely.”

“I’m fine. Just a headache.”

“Aren’t you cold?”

“No.”

Ron studied him for a moment longer and then nodded curtly, looking hurt. “Fine then. I’ll be downstairs.”

Harry nodded and Ron left. Turning back to the window, Harry watched the snow falling for a few minutes more before climbing down from the window and closing it. He changed into his pajamas and crawled into bed, though it was a long time before he managed to fall asleep.

***

The next morning before breakfast, Harry woke early and went outside, his usual ritual every morning of a Quidditch match. Though the grass had a light dusting of frost on it, the snow hadn’t stuck. It was a cold day and his breath fogged in the air as he walked, frost crunching beneath his feet. He’d brought his broomstick but lacked the inclination to fly; he wanted his feet firmly on the ground for some reason he couldn’t define. Maybe because it was easier to balance, and he was feeling distinctly unbalanced lately.

After a quick tour of the pitch, he went inside to eat breakfast and get his schoolbooks. They only had morning classes today and the Quidditch game was scheduled for after lunch. Most people had already gathered in the Great Hall for breakfast, the atmosphere typical of any morning before a game, and a bit more energetic because of last night’s snow fall. He slipped into his chair, picked up a piece of toast, and then everything went fuzzy.

“…Harry? Harry.”

He glanced up to find Hermione watching him worriedly. “Wh…what?” he asked a little hoarsely as the dizziness faded.

“You alright? You went really pale.”

But Harry suddenly felt as if he were not all right. In fact, he felt as if, any moment, he were going to vomit, and the Great Hall was certainly no place for that.

He got up hurriedly, smiling wanly at her. “Fine. Just not hungry.”

She opened her mouth to ask more, but Harry was already hurrying away and didn’t pause to listen.

Dizziness hit him again near the door, and he stumbled, catching himself on the wall.

“Alright, Potter?”

Was it his imagination, or was there a faint undertone of concern in that familiar, sneering voice? He stiffened and turned slowly. Malfoy stood behind him, Crabbe on one side, Goyle still back at the table, eating. The familiar, dark nastiness in Malfoy’s eyes destroyed any notion of concern. “I’m fine, Malfoy,” he said coldly.

Malfoy smirked. “Wouldn’t want you falling off your broomstick again, like in third year, now, would we?”

“Trust me, Malfoy, you don’t have to worry about that,” Harry replied. He left quickly, before Malfoy could say anything more, and before vomiting all over the floor.

He went outside, the cold morning clearing his head and easing the strange dizziness. He went around the side of the castle so no one coming out would see him, and sat down heavily on the grass, breathing slowly and waiting for the nausea to pass. By the time class started twenty minutes later, he’d forgotten all about the sudden illness, and started concentrating on more important things, like Quidditch.

***

Draco watched Potter stumble away, his eyes narrowed in thought as he wondered what, possibly could be wrong. An odd and very faint coil of unease made its way into his belly, but he squashed it firmly. After all, he hadn’t really done anything, right? Nothing to be responsible for Potter’s pale face and tight lips, anyway.

Still, just to be sure, he made an excuse to Vincent and left the Great Hall. He’d seen Harry turn towards the door and made to follow him. When he stepped out of the castle and into the cold morning, however, there was no sign of him.

With a vague hope of finding him by the hollow, Draco hurried into the trees, but Potter wasn’t there. He flipped through the book, read the last note, and then, after checking to be sure he had a few minutes, began his reply. It pained him to have to suggest a partnership with Potter, even with the ulterior motive of getting rid of Pansy and her whining, simpering, heart-broken moans about Weasley. However, if it meant that he no longer had to wait for Vincent and Pansy to finish shagging every night before going to bed, then it was worth it. And besides, there were more things at stake here, besides his pride, as hard to imagine as that was. He had to keep Potter writing.

“Trust me, Potter, it pains me to suggest this. However, the alternative is even more terrifying to consider, so I am afraid this is necessary. Pansy fancies herself in love with none other than your friend Weasley (the male one, not the female one). So here is my proposal. You claim that life is driven by fate and that it is fated that Granger and Weasley end up together and create thousands of red-haired, Halfblood children. I say that everything in life is an accident. So if Weasley were to end up with someone else (say… Pansy…?) it would mean that FATE had nothing to do with it, WE caused it to happen. And, of course, it would also mean that a Pureblooded line like the Weasleys (as poor and distasteful as I find them) was not watered down by Muggle-tainted blood. So, what do you say? Accept my challenge?”

That finished, Draco suddenly realized that he had taken longer than he thought, and, even if he ran, he was going to be late for Potions.

Cursing softly, he took off at a run for the castle. Even so, he arrived late, gasping for breath and red-faced.

Snape raised an inquisitive brow, which was nothing compared to the look of shock on Potter’s face. Draco was never late for Potions.

Scowling, he sat down beside Pansy and got out a quill, thankful that Snape didn’t ask questions. Had it been Potter, he would have lost at least twenty house points.

Draco glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes met Potter’s green ones. They held for a moment and then, shocking them both, Potter smiled a slight, lopsided smile that held neither challenge nor mockery, but only understanding. Draco spun around so fast that the sleeve of his robe caught his ink well, knocking it to the floor, drawing Snape’s attention again as he quickly muttered a cleaning spell, cursing softly under his breath.

He heard laughter behind him and felt an uncharacteristic flush paint his cheekbones an unbecoming pink. Malfoys, after all, were not clumsy, and did not blush.

“Problems, Malfoy?” Weasley drawled from somewhere behind him, and Draco heard Pansy catch her breath and then let out a loving sigh.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor for disrupting class,” Snape barked, glaring furiously. There were mutinous mumbles from the Gryffindors, but Draco flashed his professor a grateful smile, finished cleaning up the mess, and shot Pansy a scathing glare, though none of it was really her fault.

It was not turning into a good day, which, of course, did not bode well for the upcoming Quidditch match.

***

Harry was furious. Blinding, burning, aching rage ran through him, making him tremble, and he slammed the notebook shut firmly. How dare Malfoy say those things about Hermione and Ron? Sure, Harry himself was against them being together because it seemed as though they were ‘destined’ to be and he was against destiny as a matter of principle, but that was a far cry from claiming it was wrong because Hermione’s parents were Muggles and Ron was poor. It made the entire thing seem petty somehow. As if he sought to break apart his best friends who had demonstrated a tiny bit of possible attraction for one another that may possibly grow into something more, and he sought to destroy it to prove that it didn’t have to be that way? He sought to destroy it with the help of Malfoy?

He tossed the book back into the hollow and stalked away furiously. By the time the Quidditch match started an hour or so later, he was still angry, his rage fueled by an unacknowledged feeling of guilt that he had shared a secret with someone who would say such things about his best friends. How could he have forgotten?

“Alright, Harry?” Neville, the team’s water boy, asked him as they waited in the Gryffindor changing rooms. “You look a little pale.”

“Not nervous, are you?” Seamus asked with a lopsided grin. “We’re sure to win, as long as you stay on your broomstick this time.”

“That wasn’t his fault!” Natalie, a third year Beater, cried. “Malfoy knocked him off.”

“Right then, as long as he doesn’t let Malfoy knock him around again,” Seamus amended.

“Trust me,” Harry said grimly. “Malfoy won’t stand a chance against me.”

“That’s the spirit!” Neville said with a smile, handing him some water.

Quidditch took all of Harry’s concentration. He tuned all other thoughts out and focused on the Snitch. Well, the Snitch, and the other Seeker. He was so angry.

Malfoy, evidently, was not expecting rage, and he had the grace to look startled at Harry’s scathing scowl as they took their places above the pitch.

“Problems, Potter?” Malfoy drawled with a haughty smirk.

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.

”

Malfoy looked even more startled by this, and his sneering tone dropped as he cried with a bewildered sort of confusion, “What?”

“What do you think?” The game started below and Harry restlessly began scanning the pitch for the Snitch. Malfoy was too busy studying his face to do the same.

“If this has anything to do with that cute smile in my direction in Potions, Potter—”

Harry interrupted him. “You? You thought I was smiling at you?” he lied. “Trust me, I wasn’t. I was laughing at you, Malfoy. Your face was so red… It amused me.”

Malfoy laughed. “Whatever, Potter.”

Ducking a Bludger and moving a little higher to get out of the way of the main game play, Harry rolled his eyes. “What, did you think we were friends or something, Malfoy?”

“Of course not! But I certainly don’t see what I’ve done to deserve—”

Malfoy was too busy arguing to notice a Bludger coming right for him and Harry reacted instinctively, slamming into him and shoving him out of the way.

Malfoy yelped and opened his mouth to shout, until he noticed the Bludger fly past. He glanced from it to Harry and then back again and said in an odd, almost humble voice, “Thanks. I didn’t see it.”

Harry was too furious even to let this uncharacteristic display of gratitude affect his anger. He spun away, ignoring Malfoy and focusing on the Snitch, which had yet to make an appearance. Malfoy followed him.

“Potter,” he said finally, sighing. “Just tell me what I’ve supposedly done.”

He had been flying a few feet ahead and he spun suddenly, so that the tip of his broom was nearly close enough to touch Malfoy’s. “You don’t see what you’ve done? You think you have the right to call my friends those things?”

“What things?” Malfoy asked blankly.

It occurred to Harry then that Malfoy honestly did not see the insult behind the things he had said, and it shocked him. Shaken, he merely stared at Draco in a bemused sort of fascination, wondering what it must be like to live in a world where the line between what is right and what is wrong was so clearly defined, yet so obviously skewed. He struggled hard enough just to define what was real and what wasn’t.

Before either of them could break the strange, thoughtful sense of awareness that had fallen over them, a flicker of gold flew in between them. The Snitch. They tore their eyes away from each other and took off after it at the same speed, diving downwards in a perfect replica of the dive that had nearly killed them in the last match, except this time with more control and grace. They pulled out at the same time, the Snitch, as could be expected, held triumphantly between Harry’s fingers.

Rather than wait for the fans and his team to reach the ground and congratulate him, which he normally did, this time, Harry crushed the Snitch in his palm, tossed the broken pieces onto the pitch, snarled something under his breath, and stalked away.

The dive had given him enough time to remember his fury and to let it wash over him again, and by the time he’d reached the ground, he was safely hidden behind it again.

No one noticed him leave. His team was busy hooting and dancing about with the spectators, and the Slytherins were scowling and mumbling beneath their breath. All of them except one, and it only took Malfoy a few seconds to realize that Harry had left the pitch and was already almost back to the Gryffindor changing rooms.

Draco wasn’t upset about losing. Hell, to be honest, he’d expected it. However, what he had not expected was Potter’s fury.

“It’s not about them, Potter, don’t you get it?” he called, and Potter stopped, glancing over his shoulder warily.

“What’s it about then?”

Us. Draco’s eyes widened and he forced the strange thought away. “Fate,” he said smoothly, grabbing Potter’s wrist as Potter moved to open the door to the dressing room. “Do you believe in it, Harry?”

“No.”

“Then prove it isn’t real,” Draco challenged in a silken, tempting tone.

And Harry, staring into his eyes, his wrist caught in Malfoy’s grip, honestly had no choice. Whether fate was real or not hardly mattered, because whether this was chance or destiny, he was already firmly wrapped up in it.

He nodded once, jerking his wrist away. “Alright,” he said with a nod. “I’ll prove it wrong.”

Malfoy smiled at him and nodded in reply. “Right then,” he said. “We’ve got to make plans.”

The Gryffindors were spilling off the pitch, Harry could hear them. “Later,” he said. “We’ll make plans later.”

It was an incredibly awkward moment and, rather than attempt to break it with words, Malfoy nodded curtly and walked away.

***

“Rotten luck.”

Draco jumped, spinning around. He’d been making his way back to the Slytherin common room, lost in thought, when the sudden voice had startled him. Goyle had caught up to him. “What?”

“Rotten luck. You nearly had it that time.”

Suddenly eerily worried that Goyle had somehow read his mind and had known the confusion and questions he’d been mulling over, Draco scowled. “Almost had what?”

“The Snitch.”

Smiling a little sardonically at his own paranoia, Draco shrugged. “Yeah,” he said.

They fell into step together. “You’ll beat him one of these days.”

“Of course I will. It’s inevitable.” They were silent for a bit, making their way down a flight of stairs. Suddenly, Draco, pushing his hair out of his eyes, said rather desperately, “Greg, have you ever… you know…”

“Have I ever what?”

“Done something that you should regret but somehow find yourself unable to stop?”

He considered for a moment. “You mean… like eat too much for dinner?”

“Sod it, never mind,” Draco snarled, rolling his eyes. They’d arrived at the entrance to the common room and he snapped the password.

“Draco, wait!” Goyle cried, following him inside. “If you’ll just explain…”

“There’s nothing to explain. Just leave me alone to think, will you?”

It was dinnertime now, and most of the Slytherins had gone straight from the Quidditch Pitch to the Hall, and Goyle, with a shrug, left the room to join them.

Draco sprawled in a chair before the blazing hearth and scowled, resting his chin on his hand and watching the flames. He was uncomfortably aware of something happening to him that he could not define, did not like, and yet couldn’t seem to shake off. Almost like a flu of some sort, except it did not make him feel ill, it made him… restless.

Of course Gregory wouldn’t understand. He hardly understood anything.

Draco sat alone in silent contemplation for a short while, before entranceway and Pansy stumbled inside. She was sobbing wildly.

Draco watched in shock as she wove her way to his chair and collapsed at his feet, sobbing to hard to speak. “What’s wrong?”

She took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s Vincent,” she said finally, hiccupping. “I was coming back here and Harry Potter called my name and came running after me, Ron and Hermione trailing behind and I didn’t know what they were doing or anything, so I waited for them to catch up. Harry started going on about Potions and how he and Ron needed a Potions tutor or something, and Ron looked just as confused as I did. You know how bad I am at Potions. Hermione looked totally horrified, I suspect she was annoyed they didn’t ask her, and I was trying to explain that there was no way I could help them, when Vincent came down the hall, and as soon as he saw me talking to Harry and Ron, he started shouting, and pushed me, and I knocked into Harry and Harry fell over,” her voice was coming faster and faster now as her chest rose and fell hysterically. “Hermione went to help Harry and I’d dropped all the library books I had taken out and tried picking them up, but I was crying too hard and the next thing I knew, Ron had leapt on Vincent and was trying to punch him! And Vincent just laughed and started pounding on him, and, Draco, I think he’s going to kill him!”

Draco swore. He certainly couldn’t fix Pansy up with Weasley if Weasley was dead. “They’re still fighting?”

“Just down the hall.”

He nodded quickly, told her to stay in the common room, and hurried into the hall.

Vincent was holding Weasley against the wall, pounding his fists into the redhead’s stomach, while Granger was restraining Potter, saying rather hysterically that everything would be fine, they just needed to find a teacher.

“Vincent!” Draco barked, coming towards them. “Let him go.”

Vincent looked no more shocked than Weasley and his friends. His hands reflexively tightened on Weasley’s robes. “What?”

“Let him go. Honestly, you’ve got blood all over the floor, and he’s not as big as you are. Hardly a fair fight. Let him go.”

“Malfoy,” Granger started, looking furious. He didn’t have time for her and shot her a glare, which she caught and wisely snapped her mouth shut. Potter was silent, watching.

“Let Weasley go, he hasn’t done anything,” Draco said, his voice calm, despite the annoyance in his tone.

“He was talking to—” Vincent began.

“Let him go.”

Vincent let Weasley go, who collapsed in a bloody heap. “Fine,” he said stiffly. “Whatever, Malfoy.” He sauntered off to the common room, and Draco watched him go, before sighing and turning back to Weasley.

Granger and Potter were beside him now, trying to help him sit up. Draco suspected he had a few broken bones, or at least cracked ribs, as he was moaning incoherently, unable to move.

Granger managed to pull him almost into a sitting position and Weasley gasped in pain, losing consciousness.

“I’ll go get a teacher,” Granger whispered, voice unusually thick. “He’s bleeding.”

“No need to get a professor,” Draco said quickly. The last thing he wanted was to lose house points over something as paltry as this. “He’ll be fine.” “He’s unconscious and he’s bleeding,” Potter snapped.

Draco pulled out his wand. “I’ll fix it.”

Granger crouched protectively over him. “You won’t touch him,” she snarled. “How do we know you’re not just going to kill him?”

Draco smirked. “You’ll just have to trust me.” He glanced up at Potter, challenge in his eyes as he waited for the other boy to speak. Potter nodded once and Draco snorted. He hadn’t been waiting for permission, merely acknowledgement.

He knelt beside Weasley and performed the complex healing spells he’d memorized over the summer. Weasley’s eyes opened a few moments later, narrowed thoughtfully, and then he moaned.

“I was hit by a train, wasn’t I?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Potter replied. “Are you alright?”

“Stiff, but nothing feels broken anymore.”

“We’d better get you to the dorms,” Granger decided, grabbing his hand and helping him up. “You sure you don’t need to go see Madam Pomfrey?”

He tossed her an annoyed look and she shrugged, helping him down the hall. Potter turned to follow.

“Potter,” Draco called, and Harry turned around nervously.

“What?”

“Don’t do anything stupid again, alright?” Draco said tiredly. “Let me come up with a plan first.”

Potter shrugged. “I didn’t know Crabbe was mad.”

“I’ll handle Vincent. You just don’t do anything stupid until I’ve come up with a plan.”

Potter smiled crookedly, startling Draco, who grimaced. “Thanks. For helping him. He was really hurt.”

Not used to gratitude from Potter, Draco shrugged. “Didn’t want to lose any house points.”

Potter looked oddly disappointed. “Well, whatever. And… congratulations. It was a good game today, wasn’t it?”

“I lost.”

Potter shrugged. “But only just.”

“Which doesn’t count, in Quidditch.”

“I suppose not.” Potter looked reluctant to join his friends, who were bickering as they walked away, and Draco wondered why. He kept glancing over his shoulder at them, turning back, and struggling to find something to say. It was rather… cute.

Cute? It certainly was not! “Go catch up to your little friends, Potter,” Draco snapped. “They’re getting away.”

“Wait. Drac—I mean, Malfoy.”

Draco raised one brow questioningly, crossing his arms over his chest. “What?”

There was an endless second as they studied each other, Draco waiting for Potter to speak, watching as he struggled to find something to say, and it was rather tense. There was, after all, so much that needed to be said between them that neither even knew where to begin finding the words.

Potter sighed. “Nothing.”

“Right then.”

They looked at each other again, Potter looking nervous, Draco rather confused about why things were awkward (why couldn’t he just say something snarky and walk away like usual?). Potter licked his lips and Draco, startled, jumped a little, flushing, much to his own horror. “Don’t do that!”

“Do what?” Potter cried, confused.

Draco turned away, running his hand through his hair and scowling. “Nothing. Nothing, just… nothing.” He turned and stalked away before Potter could say another word, mumbling a quick cleaning charm his mother had taught him, that cleaned up all the blood off the floor.

3 

No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
And now we have it, every wish comes true,
We are alone now in a fleecy world;
Even the stars have gone, we two alone.

-A November Night, Sarah Teasdale

October sped by quickly, bringing with it crimson and gold leaves, colder weather, and that brisk sort of chill to the air that warns of the coming winter. Life had fallen into a sort of routine for Harry. He’d wake up, go to the hollow, check the journal, write to Draco, eat breakfast, go to class, check again after classes (leaving Draco enough time to reply over lunch), check again after dinner, and then go to bed. In the journal, they’d plan how exactly they were going to get Ron and Pansy together, commented on classes and the weather, life in general, and occasionally got into spirited and philosophical arguments. They never saw each other, which was strange because the only contact they had anymore was through the journal, and the occasional class they shared. No time to talk or to insult each other or to play Quidditch against one another. October was a busy month for homework, and Harry didn’t want to make Hermione and Ron any more suspicious by sneaking off without them any more than necessary.

It was a week before the Halloween Ball when Harry put what Draco had called ‘Phase One’ into effect. He waited until most of the Gryffindors were in bed, and then joined Ron by the fire.

He knew Ron was hurt that he’d been absent so often lately, running out to the hollow and all, and he felt a small, secret, and oddly satisfying thrill of guilt.

He smiled. “Hey, Ron.”

Ron glanced up and answered his smile. “Hi. Thought you went to bed.”

Harry shook his head. “I wanted to talk to you about the Halloween Ball.”

Wrinkling his nose, Ron scowled. “Hermione’s dead set on going as a bruised garden gnome. I’m glad we’re not going.”

Harry grimaced. “That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about. I think we should go.”

Ron looked horrified. “Go? But Harry! You’ve been against it from the start!”

“I know, I know, it’s just… I sort of need you to be there. Sort of like a favor to me.”

The shrewd and calculating look that suddenly brightened Ron’s eyes should have warned Harry, but the lighting was dim and he could barely see. “A favor? What’s in it for me?” Ron asked.

Harry blinked and then asked slowly, “What do you want to be in it for you?”

“Well, I’ll go. On the one condition that you do something as a favor to me.”

“What is it?”

“Go with Ginny as your date.”

Harry winced.

***

Early the next morning, Harry woke up suddenly, and then closed his eyes just as quickly as a wave of dizziness washed over him. It was like that most days, though he couldn’t for the life of him figure out why he felt so weak in the morning. Not wanting to worry anyone, he waited for it to pass, and then got out of bed.

However, it was taking more and more time to pass each day, and now daylight had brought with it a nagging headache.

The sun hadn’t yet quite risen, and Harry left the castle as the first lights tinged the eastern horizon. He’d been getting up that early every morning, before Ron awoke, so as not to arouse suspicion. As it was, Ron, if he had any idea of Harry’s early mornings, probably just thought it was early morning Quidditch practice anyway.

His breath hissed in white clouds that misted up his glasses as he walked, and Harry thought mournfully that it was an unusually cold October, which meant it would most likely be a nasty winter.

Draco had written in the book the night before, and Harry read his words quickly. “Brilliant, Potter, so the plan is complete. Do your part with Weasley tonight, and I’ll work on Pansy. She shouldn’t be that difficult; I just can’t let her know what’s going on. It won’t be as dramatic that way, and as you’ve said before, I can’t do anything unless it has the proper flair of drama behind it. I’ve got to get back to the castle, it’s bloody cold out. I’m quite honestly surprised that it hasn’t snowed again yet.”

Writing quickly, Harry replied, “Ron’ll be there, though I had to strike a deal with him to get him to agree just to go to the Ball. Guess what I’ve got to do in return, Malfoy. Go with Ginny. I swear, if we’re trying to prove that fate doesn’t exist by fixing Ron up with Pansy, he’s trying to prove that it does with his insistence that I am Meant To Be with Ginny. The worst part is that everyone in my house seems to agree. No offence to Ginny or anything, but… she doesn’t interest me like that. I don’t want to hurt Ron’s feelings, of course, so I’m stuck going with her. I didn’t want to go to this Ball at all!

“As for your comment on the weather, you’re right, it is colder than usual! So I think we should make sure that Ron and Pansy’s costumes are warm, so they don’t catch a cold or anything. I don’t want Ron to hate me in the morning. Oh bloody hell, I’ve just realized! I’m going to have to wear a costume to the bloody ball, aren’t I? One that matches Ginny’s! Last I heard, she was planning to go as Cleopatra or something. Which is rather odd, given that the only younger students that can go must be asked my seventh years, and I don’t think she’s got a date yet. You know what would be ironic? If Ron’s promised her that he’ll try fixing me up with her at the Ball. Which, of course, seems more likely the more I think about it… I swear, if I end up having to go to this blasted thing dressed as an Egyptian love-slave, Malfoy, you’ll pay. There are some things I will not do, not even as a favor to you.”

He tossed the quill, inkwell, and book back into the tree and walked quickly back inside, shivering.

Hermione was in the common room, putting the last finishing touches on the charm she had created to make her costume for the ball. Harry, grimacing with reluctance, sat down nearby. He watched her work in silence for a while before finally asking, “What are you going as?”

She glanced up. “Why would you care? You’re not going,” she replied, rather coldly. She had tried numerous times over the last few days to convince he and Ron to go to the Ball.

“Well,” Harry said slowly, thoughtfully. “I was trying to think of what I should go as. Since I’ve decided to go and all.”

Her eyes widened. “But Harry, you don’t have a date!”

“Who are you going with?” Harry asked with a scowl. “Besides, I’m going with Ginny.”

“Oh no you’re not, she’s not going,” Hermione said. “Three people have asked her and she turned them all down.”

“She has to go with me,” Harry said desperately, thinking that Ron wouldn’t go if Ginny refused to be Harry’s date.

Hermione’s eyes widened and darkened, and then narrowed with speculation as a sly grin flirted with the corners of her lips. “Oh, Harry,” she gushed. “You’ve finally decided Ron and I are right and you’re meant to be with Ginny, haven’t you?”

Harry panicked. “Actually, I—”

“But the Ball is in a week, Harry, a week, and you haven’t asked her yet, and you don’t have a costume! What are you going to be, Harry? You can’t just go as a wizard or something cheap like that! Oh, I know, I can simply reproduce the charm for my costume and you can go as the same thing as me!”

“And what would that be?” he asked rather nervously.

“I told you already! A bruised garden gnome!”

“I… Hermione, I think I’d better talk to Ginny about our costumes. She might want to… match or something,” he said desperately. “Do you know where she is?”

“At breakfast,” she told him. “I was just about to go. I’ll walk with you.”

She chattered the whole way about costume ideas she could help him with and didn’t seem to mind when Harry didn’t say much in return.

The Great Hall was full already, and Harry scanned it quickly, seeing Malfoy sitting beside Pansy and talking animatedly, and Ginny, sitting beside Ron, reading a book as she ate some oatmeal.

“There she is, go and ask,” Hermione hissed, elbowing him sharply.

“What, now?” Harry yelped.

“Of course, now!” She put her hands on her hips. “You’ve only got a week, Harry, I sincerely hope that this isn’t just another repeat of the Yule Ball thing from fourth year.”

“It’s not,” he said. “We’ll be in costumes and you won’t be there with Viktor. Who are you going with?”

She glanced over at the Hufflepuff table and shrugged. “Justin. Go ask Ginny, now.”

She pushed him over so that he was standing directly behind Ginny, and before Harry could protest again, Hermione climbed up on an empty spot on the bench, eyes shining. She’d grabbed a glass of pumpkin juice, straight from Neville’s hand, and a spoon, and she tapped the spoon against the glass loudly. “Everyone, can I have your attention please?” she called. Harry suddenly felt the nausea returning as everyone in the Hall turned and watched in shock. Even the professors.

“Hermione,” Harry hissed. “Get down from there.” She ignored him and, looking for help, he glanced around the Hall desperately. His eyes met Malfoy’s, and he grimaced, causing Malfoy’s lopsided grin to grow even more.

“Harry has something he would like to ask,” Hermione said extravagantly.

“I’m not proposing marriage,” Harry snapped.

She smiled angelically down at him and mouthed, ‘Someday you’ll thank me’. Which Harry doubted.

“Ask away, Harry,” she said now, and Harry glanced at Ginny, who had set her book aside and glanced up at him, confused.

“Harry, what’s going on?” she asked, nervousness making her voice shake.

“I… bloody hell. Ginny, would you go to the Halloween Ball with me?” he blurted, determined to get this over with so he could kill Hermione already.

There was a shocked silence in the hall that was broken by the one thing Ron and Malfoy had ever shared: hysterical laughter. Ron was laughing at the horrified expression on Harry’s face, and Malfoy was laughing at the entire thing, and before anyone could even identify the strange sound of their laughter mixing in the air, Ginny had launched herself from her chair and into Harry’s arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and kissing him clumsily.

“Oh, Harry,” she breathed. “I’d love to.”

Harry frantically tried to disentangle her arms and legs from around him while the room erupted into catcalls and applause, even from the professors. After all, it wasn’t everyday that the Boy-Who-Lived finally discovered what they had known all along. That he and Ginny were Meant To Be.

Malfoy was the only one still laughing, even while the Slytherins scowled and rolled their eyes.

***

“C’mon, Harry,” Hermione begged. “You’ve got to talk to me again! I was doing you a favour!”

“We’ve known all along that you and Gin would eventually get together. I guess Hermione just got a little carried away,” Ron asked with a grin.

Harry didn’t speak, he just glowered into the potion he’d been preparing. Potions was never so torturous as when he was forced to listen to snickering Slytherins whispering and pointing at him, and Hermione begging for forgiveness.

Hermione poked him in the ribs just as he had been trying to pour his mixture of hoarken juice into the draught of Brantly serum. They were making Chapten Potion, the only known cure for the bite of a rabid phoenix. Hermione’s touch made him jerk and spill a bit on the table. “Hermione,” he hissed. “Do-not-touch-me.”

She looked hurt. “You can’t hate me forever. Just think of the stories this will make for your wedding.”

“My wedding?” he snapped, slamming the hoarken juice onto the table. “My wedding? What wedding, Hermione? What fucking wedding?”

She paled horribly and had started shaking. “Harry, I only—”

“Calm down, Harry,” Ron said, glancing at Snape, who, strangely enough, was not hovering over their shoulder waiting to take more house points from them. “Besides, it wasn’t that bad. Mum will think it was terribly romantic, when I tell her about it. And Ginny’s thrilled.”

Harry sucked in a deep, calming breath through his teeth. He was about to snap something in reply, when Crabbe called from the back of the room, “Harry and Weasley’s sister, sitting in a tree.” He snickered, as did Goyle.

Harry whipped around, fury making him relish the idea of a duel. “Excuse me?” he replied, voice tight with anger. “Were you jealous, Crabbe? I mean, who are you taking to the Ball? Didn’t Pansy laugh in your face when you asked her? That’s what I heard.”

Pansy, who’d been sitting on the table next to them with Millicent and Blaise, gasped a little. Before Crabbe, whose face was heating up remarkably, could bellow a reply, Snape roared, “Detention, Potter, for provoking a classmate!”

Harry’s mouth fell open in shock, and there was an instant protest from all the Gryffindors. “Any whining,” Snape growled, “And you’ll all be joining him.” Uneasy, bitter silence fell, and Snape nodded. “Back to work then.”

***

Draco couldn’t help it. For the rest of his morning classes, every time he pictured Potter’s face in the Great Hall, alternating between shades of puce and porcelain, he’d snicker. It was classic, really, especially considering he seemed to be the only one in the entire school who knew how Harry really felt about the insipid Weasley girl. And now, rather than prove that fate didn’t exist, he’d just proved that it did.

Quite amusing really, despite the very strange feelings of what could only be described as pity deep in his stomach. Potter had looked wretched. Pity and something else that Draco had never felt before and couldn’t even begin to name, though sometimes, when he caught himself off guard, he thought it might be jealousy. Over what, he could not even begin to guess.

After Herbology, he made his way to the hollow, still laughing under his breath. He read Potter’s last note and nearly dropped the book in shock, his eyes going wide. Harry Potter showing up dressed as an Egyptian love-slave… now that was an image that was going to keep him up, late into the night.

He cleared his throat delicately, forced the mental pictures away, and replied, wisely not mentioning the love-slave thing.

“ Are you trying to get yourself killed? First with that deal with Weasley nearly getting himself beaten to death by Crabbe, and now this. Honestly, you rely too heavily on my powers of persuasion to save you, you know. I can’t accomplish miracles if you persist on provoking him this way! I can only hope that detention shall accomplish what I cannot, and instill in you a bit of common sense. In other news… Lovely display in the Hall. Honestly, you and Weasley are made for each other. This only proves it… and I, of course, find it quite amusing.”

***

Halloween, it had been explained to Harry, was fundamentally different to wizards as opposed to Muggles, though the idea was the same. Instead of dressing up in a costume, wizards enchanted their ordinary clothes into a costume, which, if elaborate enough, could change the wizard into anything imaginable. The Ball was going to turn out to be a random collection of mismatched things rather than just a group of people in costume. The other difference was the charms were made to disappear at midnight, in deference to the legend that had begun the entire thing. In Muggle Culture, the Cinderella legend had become a simple fairy tale. In Wizarding Culture, it inspired the celebrations undertaken to mark Samhain, the night when the dead walked closer to the living. After all, Halloween ended at midnight and the world of the dead slipped back into the shadows, and the disguises, which in ancient times had been used to hide the mortal soul from any evil being seeking to claim them, were no longer necessary. In more contemporary Wizard Culture, however, the Midnight Unveiling was used to add drama to the entire affair.

After Hermione had explained the entire thing to Harry, adding that only the Seventh Years were given permission to go to a Halloween Ball unless they asked a younger student and that it would last until midnight, Harry, feeling rather overwhelmed, had asked, “How do you know all of this?”

She smiled in a rather smug fashion and replied, “Honestly, Harry, don’t you read?”

“Nothing as boring as all of that!” he had cried, and Ron smirked.

The night of the Halloween Ball was crisp, cold, and windy, and, after the traditional feast, the younger students were herded off to bed while the professors turned the Great Hall into a ballroom and the Seventh Years cast their costume charms.

Draco had asked Pansy to be his date, only because it made the Plan easier to put into effect and because, since she had broken up with Crabbe and started moping over a Gryffindor, she had become somewhat of an outcast, and no one else would ask her. The night of the ball, he quickly cast his costume charm and waited in the Slytherin common room for Pansy to come down.

While waiting, he checked his reflection in the mirror in the corner one last time, snickering softly to himself. He smoothed the hair off his forehead so his ‘scar’ would be visible.

Draco Malfoy had opted to go to the Halloween Ball as Harry Potter.

Blaise came downstairs next, dressed as his favourite Quidditch player, and he stopped, startled, when he saw Draco. Then he started to laugh. “Harry Potter?” he cried. “You’re going as Potter?”

Draco shrugged easily. “Why not? He’s famous.”

“Because no one will know who you really are!”

“That’s the point. It’s Halloween.”

Pansy, dressed as the goddess Aphrodite, drifted into the room, and Draco snickered. “Goddess of Love?” he asked, still laughing.

Pansy, whose hair had been transformed to long, silken golden blonde, whose skin was now milky and radiant, and whose eyes were crystalline blue, rested her hands on her hips and scowled, though amusement glittered in her eyes. “And why not?” she asked, running her eyes over him with wry humour. “Harry Potter? Honestly, Draco…”

Smiling gratefully at her, Draco stopped laughing. He hadn’t wanted to try explaining his costume to Blaise and used her presence as an excuse to avoid it. “C’mon, we’re already late, don’t want to be any later,” he said, leading the way out of the common room. They, of course, would never arrive at the Ball, but Pansy didn’t know that.

Ten minutes later, Pansy looked around in confusion. “Draco, this isn’t the way to the Great Hall.”

He smiled at her. “I know, but I wanted to show you something.”

She looked a little nervous. “This isn’t some set up snogging session or anything, is it? Because, Draco, I thought I told you about Ron—”

He grinned. “You did.”

“Then what—”

“Trust me!”

“Draco.”

He laughed, tugging her hand around a corner. He had led her deeper into the dungeons, and before she could complain again, he pushed open the squeaky door that led to the back stairs. Hardly anyone knew that there was another way out of the deepest dungeons, and the stairs were filthy. Still, it was the easiest way to get where he needed to go.

“Stairs? Where are we?” she asked, biting her lip.

“Shh.”

It took ten more minutes of walking and six more staircases before they’d arrived at the top of the southernmost tower, which was mainly used for storage. Draco told her to close her eyes and led her into the highest room, which was small, drafty, and dusty. Then, without telling her to open them, without another word, he slipped outside the room and locked it behind him, leaving the key in the doorknob.

“Draco?” he heard her call, hesitantly.

Smirking, he moved silently down the short hall, climbed into the rafters, and waited.

It didn’t take long.

***

“Harry… Harry, honestly, shouldn’t you be at the Ball with Ginny?”

Harry shot Ron an irritated look. “I told her I was getting drinks,” he said. “I’ve got to show you something.”

Ron glanced about skeptically. “Up in this old tower? Does this have anything to do with You-Know-Who?”

“Voldemort? No—err… yes…” Harry shrugged. “You’ll see. Just come on. The faster we get there, the faster we can get back.”

“Well, that’s fine, it’s just… these boots have heels on them!”

“Then you shouldn’t have dressed as Robin Hood for Halloween, Ron! And since when does Robin wear heels anyway? We’re nearly there.”

Harry glanced in the dust on the floor carefully. There were two sets of footprints there, leading up to the door, and only one walking away, and he sighed in relief, fighting the urge to look up.

“Shit,” he mumbled. “Ron, I’ve got to get something from the common room.”

“The common room? Harry, it’ll take you twenty minutes at least to get all the way back here, let’s just forget this, alright?”

“No, no,” Harry said quickly. “Stay right here, I’ll be back, promise. Err, Ron, do you have your wand with you?”

Ron’s face flushed. “Erm, no. My, umm, trousers were too tight, and my shirt has no sleeves, so I left it on my bed.”

“Good. I mean, umm, I’ll be back.”

Harry hurried away and Ron watched him go, looking skeptical. He sighed, glancing around at the filthy, dirty hallway. “Bloody hell, Harry,” he mumbled to himself. “This is mad.”

There was a small sound up ahead and he jumped. “Hello? Anyone there?”

A small silence, and then, hopefully, “Hello?”

Ron followed the voice, finding the locked door. He turned the key and pushed it open. “Hello? I—oh…” he lost his breath at the vision that greeted him. Golden blonde hair, silk dress that spilled in soft folds to the floor, and blue eyes shimmering with tears.

Ron stepped into the room, and didn’t even notice when the door clicked shut behind him.

The girl glanced up, swallowing shakily. “What—who are you?”

“Are you alright?”

She stood up, pushing her hair out of her face. “I— I couldn’t get the door open.”

Ron’s eyes widened and he spun around, but the door was locked. Swearing softly to himself, he turned back to her. “It’s locked.”

“You let it lock?”

He scowled. “Yeah, and on purpose too. How long have you been locked up here?”

“About five minutes. I… I was scared,” she admitted with a shrug.

Ron sighed, his irritation at her slipping away. After all, she was so pretty and feminine looking, he couldn’t stay annoyed at her for long. She was a damsel in distress, after all. So was he. Well, not a damsel, he amended quickly. But certainly in distress.

Ron couldn’t help but notice how pretty she was, even if it was probably a costume and he didn’t know who she really was. After all, for all he knew, she could be a ghost. He sat beside her on the dusty windowsill and touched her arm, just to be sure. She felt solid and warm, and he smiled with relief.

“You’re not a Veela, are you?” he asked suddenly.

She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and laughed tearfully. “No.”

“Oh. Oh. Good then. We shouldn’t be locked here long, should we? My friend’ll come back in a few minutes.”

Her face brightened. “Really? I was afraid I’d be locked up here forever!”

He touched her hand reassuringly. “No. Besides, I can break the door down if I have to. So either way, it’ll be alright.”

She smiled at him and Ron felt a strange tightening in his stomach. After all, she was gorgeous.

He glanced away nervously, scuffing his foot in the dirt on the floor, and wished frantically that Harry would hurry. Almost as frantically as he was wishing that Harry never came back. After all, the girl beside him smelled so sweetly, some strange, exotic mixture of flowers and spice that he’d never smelt before, and he was content just to sit there and breathe it in.

The silence was broken by her soft breathing and the scuffing of his foot on the floor.

***

Harry had left Ron, ducked around the corner, and waited until Ron had followed the sounds of Pansy crying into the room at the end of the hall. He watched Malfoy drop down from the rafters, dash over to the door, and relock it. Then he stepped back into the hall, smiling widely.

“Brilliant,” he whispered. “It worked.”

“Did you ever doubt it? Besides, it hasn’t worked until they actually manage to fall desperately and madly in love.”

Harry leaned against the wall, sliding until he was sitting on the floor. He was oddly out of breath and a little dizzy and wanted Malfoy to mistake it for excitement. After all, if he wouldn’t tell his best friends that he was sick, he certainly wasn’t going to let Malfoy know.

Malfoy sat across from him, and they smirked at each other when they heard Ron trying frantically to open the door. Harry leaned his head back against the wall and tried to take a deep breath. Why was he feeling so weak? The sickness, which had begun only in the mornings, had now begun to strike at night as well, and he was getting worried.

The room was eerily silent and, just as Harry was about to make a comment, a sudden, irritating voice rang out. “Slytherin and Gryffindor, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G…” It was Peeves, and Harry jumped up with a yelp.

Malfoy stood as well. “Shut it, Peeves!” he shouted, and both Pansy and Ron started screaming for help inside the locked room. Peeves kept singing, and Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, rolling his eyes in frustration. “C’mon,” he said finally, grabbing Harry’s wrist and tugging. They took off running together, away from the locked room and down the stairs, Peeves tailing them and singing his irritating songs. The ghost finally grew bored with them and disappeared, but not before Harry was feeling twice as exhausted and had gray spots swimming in front of his eyes.

They had stopped running outside the library, and Harry laughed breathlessly as he leaned against the wall. Malfoy grinned. “So if they don’t show up at breakfast tomorrow, we’ll have to go let them out.”

Harry nodded, pushing away from the wall. He swayed dizzily and hoped Malfoy didn’t notice. “Yes. But I’m exhausted, I think I’ll go to bed.”

Malfoy shot him a surprised glance and then shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “I don’t particularly enjoy your company either.” He sounded defensive and, for a moment, Harry was confused. Then he realized that Malfoy thought he was leaving because he didn’t want to be around him. And he also, belatedly, noticed something else.

“Malfoy…. Malfoy, you look like me.”

Malfoy ran his eyes over Harry sneeringly. “And you, Potter, look like a prat. What are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“I’m King Arthur,” Harry replied stiffly.

Malfoy laughed. “Oh, I see. And Weasley’s Guinevere?”

Harry, who was wearing tight black trousers and a lush, white silk shirt with golden braided rim and a large, garish crown set with fake jewels, nodded. “Of course,” he said blandly. He felt as though he was going to collapse, and he hid the weakness behind a yawn.

Malfoy looked slightly concerned, but hid it admirably behind a smirk. “See you later then, Potter,” he drawled, walking away quickly. He glanced once before he turned the corner, his eyes searching Harry’s face in silence and then he was gone.

Harry turned and made his way to Gryffindor Tower.

***

Shouting from the hall sent both Ron and the blonde girl hurrying to the door, pounding on it and calling for help. When the voices had faded, however, an uneasy silence fell and the girl started to cry.

“Hey,” Ron said helplessly. “It’s not that bad. I’ll try to break through the door.”

He spent nearly twenty minutes battering himself against it before giving up, winded and bruised. He sat beside her on the floor and sighed.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “I don’t usually cry so much. I’ve just had a really bad week and now the whole Halloween Ball is ruined.”

“This isn’t so bad,” Ron said with a shrug. “I mean, locked up in a tower with Robin Hood and all.”

She smirked. “That’s who you’re supposed to be? Robin Hood? I thought you were a gay elf or something.”

Ron scowled. “Of course I’m Robin Hood! And what are you supposed to be?”

“Aphrodite,” she replied curtly, though she was smiling.

“Alright then, Aphrodite,” Ron said with a nod, rolling his eyes. “Robin Hood and Aphrodite, locked in a tower. Classic. Want to play Hangwizard?”

She shrugged indifferently and they spent a few hours sketching hanging posts and word puzzles in the dust, still waiting for Harry to return and rescue them. It was nearing eleven when, crouched in the dirt and peering at her latest word puzzle, Ron suddenly realized how close they had gotten. She was on her hands and knees, studying her puzzle with a challenging smirk, dirt on her hands and smudged on her perfect face. Ron was beside her, close enough to feel the heat of her side on his arm every time she breathed. He turned his head towards her and swallowed hard, because she was such a small distance away.

“Do you know it?” she asked, oblivious to his stare.

“What?” he breathed.

She turned her head and their noses nearly bumped. Startled, she backed away quickly, still on her hands and knees. “The puzzle. Do you know what it is?”

He forced himself to glance at the letters in the dirt. “Uhm. Professor Snape?”

She snorted. “It was too easy. I’m running out of good ones. We’ve got to get out of here, before I go mad.”

Ron nodded, because being stuck in a tiny room with her was proving quite maddening itself. It wasn’t just her perfect face, because he knew that wasn’t real (or he’d have noticed it years before). It was the way she smelled like flowers (he wasn’t informed enough to guess which type, but was proud enough at himself that he’d identified that they were flowers), and the way her nose wrinkled when she thought really hard, the smudge of dirt on her cheekbone.

“Let’s leave then,” he said, grabbing her hand and helping her up.

She rolled her eyes. “We can’t just leave or we would have already. The door’s locked.”

“There’s still the window.” He walked over and inspected it in silence. It was cold and windy outside, and he grimaced. It would make for tough climbing, but if they could make it to the roof of the tower, he knew that there was a high wall they could then lower themselves down onto, which would take them to windows leading to the Gryffindor common room.

“The window? You’re crazy, we can’t go out there! We’ll fall!”

He shrugged. “You wanted out, this is the only way. I’ll help you, I’ve climbed out plenty of windows, what with my brothers and their mad adventures. It won’t be hard. Besides, the top of the tower tapers up towards a point, so it won’t be straight up. Then, we’ll circle around to the other side where a wall juts out, and drop onto it. Follow that straight to Gryffindor Tower.”

She grimaced. “Gryffindor Tower?”

He shrugged. “Yeah.”

“And you’re sure we won’t fall?”

He took her hand and squeezed reassuringly. He liked playing the hero, almost felt like Harry must, always saving people’s lives. It was…empowering.

“Trust me,” he said.

She scoffed, even as she let him tug her over to the window. “Anything for you, Robin,” she mumbled sarcastically.

***

Draco had fully intended to go to the Ball and spend the rest of the night drinking the punch that was surely spiked by now and flirting with various pretty girls. Maybe Janie Channings, the cute Hufflepuff girl. Maybe.

He never made it, however. He hadn’t even made it to the Great Hall when a slightly slurred, soft voice called out, “Harry.”

He didn’t pause, and the voice came again. “Harry. Harry!”

Finally, he glanced over his shoulder, confused. A chunk of black hair brushed his cheek and with a jolt, he remembered his costume

Ginny Weasley was hurrying down the hall towards him. “Harry!” she cried, grabbing his arm for support as she nearly lost her balance. Her eyes were shining with tears. “I waited and waited, Harry, but you never came back!”

For a moment, a very slight moment, Draco considered confessing who he really was. It wasn’t a very long moment, however, because Draco is a Slytherin, and the prospect of taking advantage of this was too good to ignore. “Sorry,” he said smoothly, with what, had he looked like himself, would have been a knee-weakening smile. He wasn’t sure how it looked on Potter’s face, however. “I was just coming back now.”

“Harry, you changed out of your costume!” she said now, stepping back and looking at him in confusion.

“I did,” Draco replied blandly. “The trousers were so tight. Constricting. You know what I mean.”

Her eyes went huge and slid down his body, nearly reaching his collarbone before snapping back up to his face. Draco snickered; he knew she wouldn’t actually have the guts to glance all the way down at exactly what he had been implying was being constricted. “I’m sure I don’t,” she said breathily, her face turning crimson. Draco nearly gagged. She was so blatantly innocent, it was disgusting.

He brushed his knuckles along her cheekbone and she shivered, eyes glazing over. “Harry,” she breathed. “You were being weird all night. I was worried… that you were bored.”

Draco touched her lips and then her hair, finding perverse pleasure in the fear in her eyes. It was too easy. He nudged her gently, guiding her back until she was pressed against the wall, his fingers trailing down her neck. “Ginny,” he whispered, letting his breath tickle the hairs on the side of her neck. “How could I ever be bored with you around?” A thousand and one ways, he was sure. But still, it was like a game. A far too easy game, but a game all the same.

“Harry, what are you doing?” she asked, as his fingers stroked her shoulders, slipping the straps of her gown off them.

“Nothing,” he said, bending to kiss her shoulder. “Why? Don’t you like it?”

“It feels strange. I…Oh. Did you just— Harry, you just bit me!”

Draco laughed against the skin of her neck, lifted his head, and kissed her hungrily. He didn’t much like kissing girls as inexperienced as she was, but he did enjoy playing with the fragile, innocent mind of someone who was very obviously a virgin, who would attempt to scratch his eyes out if she knew who he really was. She was so shocked that she didn’t kiss him back at first, but soon enough, she was returning the kiss awkwardly, her hands shaking and clinging to his shoulders.

“Harry,” she mumbled suddenly, turning her head to the side.

“Aww, c’mon, love,” Draco whispered coaxingly, kissing her neck. “I thought you loved me.”

“I…can’t. Harry, I don’t know…how. To kiss you. I’ve never…I…” she trailed off, licking her lips.

Draco rolled his eyes and would have snickered, except he knew that the real Harry never would have. So instead, he offered magnanimously, “Let me teach you.”

She swallowed nervously. “Alright.”

“Just do exactly what I do,” Draco said, tilting her face with one hand. “Close your eyes.”

She closed her eyes and Draco kissed her. He pulled her lower lip into his mouth, licking it and nibbling on it alternately, and then pulled back the tiniest bit. “Now you.”

She imitated him, and then Draco kissed her again, differently. Again, she did the same to him, slipping her tongue into his mouth, moving it in an exact imitation of his. He kissed her again and again and with each kiss, she got better and more confident, and, only minutes later, it had stopped being a lesson and started being something else entirely. It was strangely erotic, kissing someone you should not be kissing who would have killed you had she known who you were. Even more erotic, the way she’d do anything to him that he did to her.

Draco was breathing heavily, his hands running over her back, kissing her deeply, when suddenly her hands fisted against his chest and she shoved him away, hard.

Disoriented for a minute, Draco ran a hand through his hair, scowling. “What?”

Her eyes were wide, panicky. “Harry, I… I think I’m going to…” she swayed unsteadily.

Draco growled, suddenly realizing that her pale face and flushed cheeks, glazed over eyes, and slight inability to stand on her own most likely had nothing to do with him. “You’re drunk.”

She stiffened. “I am not! I don’t drink! Just punch.”

“Punch. Lovely.” He rolled his eyes and she lurched suddenly, falling to her knees and vomiting on the floor.

“I’m dying,” she moaned.

Draco grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. “You’re not. The punch was spiked, Weasley.”

She moaned wordlessly.

“Go to bed,” he ordered, shoving her in the direction of her dorms.

She stumbled and caught herself on the wall, sliding until she was sitting on the floor. “I can’t,” she said helplessly. “I can’t walk.”

“Bloody hell.” It was one thing to take advantage of a perfectly sober Ginny, quite another when she was drunk. Potter would never forgive him if he let anything happen to her. Without another word, he hauled her roughly to her feet, slid one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and lifted her up, carrying her easily down the hall. After all, she had the body of a little girl and hardly weighed anything more than a child. She directed him to the Fat Lady’s portrait.

The Fat Lady beamed when she saw them. “Lovely! I always knew you two would look marvelous together!” she said approvingly.

“Just open the door,” Draco growled. Being Harry Potter was certainly getting old fast.

The portrait swung open slowly and, as Draco stepped through it, he smiled. After all, Potter sure owed him a lot. He’d just done the git two favors. Took care of Weasley, kept her out of trouble while she was drunk… and taught his future wife how to kiss.

***

By the time Harry had made it back to his dorm, the weakness had become a raging headache. There was a chest of potions kept near the door, filled with potions to relieve pain, flu, cold, nausea, and insomnia. Harry dug through it, searching for a headache potion, but the last bottle only had a few drops left. Desperate, he dug even deeper, finally coming up with a flask that wasn’t labeled. He pulled off the stopper and sniffed delicately. It was blackberry brandy, which Seamus had taken to brewing in their dorm room in fifth year, and, if Harry assumed correctly, this bottle was one of the many Fred and George had stolen and stashed for themselves.

“Well,” he mumbled out loud, doubtfully. “It could work.”

He took a hesitant swallow and it wasn’t too bad. It took the edge off the throbbing in his head and, content, Harry curled up in an armchair in front of the fire, flask held tightly in his grasp. The fire in the hearth had died down to smoldering embers, and Harry watched them in silence, drinking more and more brandy, until the weak alcohol had given him a very slight buzz. His head still ached, but it was a slight improvement.

The sound of the portrait swinging open made him jump out of his chair, hiding the brandy guiltily behind his back. He nearly dropped it when he saw himself stepping into the common room, Ginny limp in his arms.

“What did you do to her?” he cried. “Malfoy, if you hurt her—”

“Calm down,” Draco replied, rolling his eyes. It was disconcerting to see Draco’s sneer and how easily it twisted Harry’s own features, which Draco still wore. “She’s just drunk.”

He rolled her out of his arms and onto a chair, grimacing. “Ginny’s drunk?” Harry sighed. “How did that happen— oh shit. I just left her by the punch table and never went back!”

Draco snickered. “Well, judging by how drunk she is, she stood there waiting for a very long time.”

“I better put her in her own bed before Ron finds her like this.” Harry put the brandy flask down and picked Ginny up. She moaned but did not wake, and Harry was half way up the stairs before Draco spoke.

“What on earth were you drinking?”

“Brandy.”

Harry watched Draco take a cautious sip of the blackberry brandy and grimace. “It’s nasty.”

“Seamus made it,” he replied stiffly. “It’s alright.”

“You go put Weasley to bed, Potter,” Draco called, smirking. “I’ll get you something real to drink.”

A little nervous, Harry did as he’d been told, carrying Ginny to her room. He was a bit hesitant to just leave Draco alone in his common room as well, and hurried back. Draco was holding a bottle of Firewhiskey when he returned.

“This is way classier,” he said, holding up the bottle. “Very expensive too, and aged to perfection.”

Harry picked up the brandy. “This was aged to perfection,” he argued. “It’s been at the bottom of the Medical Potions chest for two years!”

Draco grimaced. “Lovely. Here.” He handed Harry the bottle and turned to go.

“Wait!” Harry cried. “You’re leaving?”

“Well, I figured, should any of your housemates find me here, despite the fact that I look like you, they wouldn’t be impressed. It wouldn’t be too hard to find out who I really was.”

“And since when do the Gryffindors intimidate you?” Harry challenged.

“I wasn’t intimidated,” Draco said stiffly. “It wouldn’t be me they’d hate for it, it would be you.”

“But you can’t just leave me your super expensive whiskey and go away! I want you to stay.” Harry was already a little drunk, and he thought for a moment before grinning. “Hold this, I’ll be right back.” He tossed the whiskey to Draco and dashed back up the stairs.

Draco caught the bottle easily, and he was very glad that he did. After all, it was his last bottle, and it cost nearly as much as his broomstick did.

Harry ran back into the common room, clutching his invisibility cloak. “When someone comes in, I’ll just toss this over you,” he said brightly. “They won’t see you.”

Draco shook his head slowly, incredulously, but allowed Harry to grab his arm and tugged him back to the armchairs around the fire. “I had a headache,” Harry was saying. “The brandy made it hurt less.”

Harry sat in an armchair and Draco sat in the one beside him, trying not to think about how strange it was to be sitting in the Gryffindor common room, drinking Firewhiskey with Harry Potter. He opened the bottle, took out a tumbler and a shot class, and poured himself a drink. He swallowed it quickly and it burned all the way down in a very satisfying way. He passed another tumbler to Harry, who choked and gagged at his first taste of it.

“It hurts!”

“Take some into your mouth and hold it on your tongue,” Draco suggested. “Let it slide down your throat, it doesn’t hurt that much.”

Harry did as he was told and the burn was slightly less painful. When it hit his stomach, it burned for a moment and then the ache faded into a soft sort of glowing warmth. He smiled. “Nice.”

“Have you ever had whiskey before?”

“No.”

“Lovely. How much of that brandy did you have?”

“Half a bottle.”

Draco laughed and took another long swallow. It was even stranger, sitting beside an intoxicated Harry Potter in his common room.

A few hours later, most of the bottle gone, both he and Harry were very, very drunk. Draco, when he became drunk, became chatty and bright, almost nice, and Harry, as he soon discovered, became…well…giggly.

They were both in such good moods, a direct effect of the whiskey, that it occurred to Harry that a lovely way to spend the evening would be building a tent against the wall of the common room with his invisibility cloak, and Draco had brightly agreed. With much giggling and chatting, they had soon used someone’s Cleansweep to prop the cloak up, having decided that Harry’s Firebolt would be sacrilegious, and Harry had brought down his pillows and blankets, tossing them onto the floor under the cloak.

Crawling under the tent, and effectively turning invisible, they curled up in the blankets, Draco still chatting on and on about something Harry wasn’t listening to, and Harry giggling uncontrollably.

“Now no one will ever find us,” he whispered.

Draco grinned. “We could live under here forever.”

Harry returned his grin, and took another drink of whiskey. “I’ve got chocolate frogs,” he remembered suddenly, pulling them out. He opened a box and the frog leapt out, escaping out of the tent, and Harry watched it hop across the common room, laughing helplessly. “It escaped,” he giggled.

There wasn’t much room under the cloak, but it didn’t really matter all that much because the whiskey had taken away most of their defenses and they didn’t mind being close enough to feel each other breathe. All it meant was that they didn’t have to pass the whiskey bottle all that far.

***

“This is insane.”

Ron grinned at her, clinging to the shingles on the roof of the tower. “It’s not so bad,” he shouted over the roaring wind, even though the cold breeze was going up his green tunic. His trousers (or ‘tights’, as he was reluctant to call them) were hardly any protection from the wind.

He’d climbed high enough for his arm to circle around the tip of the tower, and he reached down. She grabbed his hand and he pulled her up the rest of the way. “Now we’ll circle around and slide down. You go first so I can lower you and you won’t slip.”

She nodded and, pushing blonde hair out of her face, crawled over him, her hands twisting in his tunic so as not to slip. Ron yelped a little as she wiggled over him. He’d expected her to go the other way, not over top of him.

She got to the other side and started crawling carefully around the tower, and Ron followed, watching her closely to make sure she didn’t slip. Finally, she was above the wall that jutted out, and Ron shouted, “Take my hand and then start sliding down. I’ll hold you so you don’t slip off, and when you get down to the edge, I’ll follow you down and then give me your other hand and I’ll lower you onto the wall. Don’t worry, I’ve done this millions of times!” He’d never done it before, but felt telling her that would be counterproductive.

It was nearly midnight.

She nodded and grabbed his hand in a death grip. “Now’s not a good time to tell you I’m scared of heights, is it?” she asked nervously.

Ron smiled very gently. “Trust me,” he said again.

“I don’t even know who you are.”

“Robin Hood, remember? I never let girls fall off towers.”

She grinned and rolled her eyes and then started slowly slipping down the tower roof. Ron swallowed nervously, holding her hand tightly and keeping his own balance by digging his shoes into the shingles. It was very awkward and he kept nearly sliding down after her, but finally, she’d made it to the edge and he slipped down after her.

She slipped her other hand into his and he turned around so that he was laying on his belly, his head and shoulders hanging over the edge of the roof. “Lower yourself over the edge,” he commanded, and she shot him an incredulous stare. Rather than argue, however, she did as he’d said.

She was almost over the edge when her feet slipped and, with a shriek, she swung out, the sudden jerk nearly causing her hands to slip from Ron’s. He swore and tightened his grip. “I’ll lower you, calm down, you’re fine,” he shouted, and she closed her eyes and nodded, looking terrified.

Ron carefully lowered her and when her feet touched the wall, she jerked her hands from his and collapsed gratefully.

“Now for me,” Ron whispered to himself, rather nervously.

He turned around, dug his nails into the shingles, and slid off the edge, clinging tightly. He glanced over his shoulders, made sure he was directly above the wall, and then dropped, falling for a few terrifying seconds before crashing into the wall with a yelp.

Things went momentarily black and, when he opened his eyes, she was crouched over him, shaking him. “Oh,” she gasped when he opened his eyes. “You’re alive. I was worried…”

He grimaced. “I think I’m alright. It was just a jolt is all. C’mon, let’s get inside Gryffindor Tower.”

She pulled him to his feet and helped him limp along the wall.

He pushed the window open and slid in first, turning and pulling her through.

“Alright?” he asked her in a hushed voice. It seemed, suddenly, too quiet.

“Yeah. Th-thanks. Are you…?”

He grimaced. “My muscles hurt. Nearly all of them.”

“Sit down,” she said, guiding him to sit on the floor near the fire. “Nice common room…”

He nodded. “You’re not Gryffindor.”

“And you are.”

They didn’t meet each other’s eyes for a moment, now that they were free of the tower, their identities somehow becoming important. After all, in the other tower, it had sort of been another world.

She sat on the floor next to him, glancing at him nervously. “Who—”

Ron grimaced. “It doesn’t matter.”

She glanced at him. “What? Why?”

He shrugged. “Because. I honestly don’t care.”

She drew back, stung. “You don’t care? Fine. I don’t care either.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“What did you mean?” She got to her feet angrily.

He stood up as well. “I meant that it doesn’t matter who you are because—”

“I like someone else anyway, and this isn’t anything but stupid gratitude for getting me out of that blasted tower and—”

“— No matter what house you come from or who you are—”

“— I like someone else. Do you even care? You said you don’t care, but maybe you do. Maybe. It’s—”

“—I want to kiss you anyway.” He kissed her then, suddenly, cutting her off mid-shout.

For a second, after his lips crashed against hers, everything seemed to freeze and neither of them dared to breathe as he waited to see what she would do and she frantically tried to decide between running frantically and as fast as she could, and…kissing him back. With a weak little sound in the back of her throat, she slipped her hands up and around his neck, knocking off the ridiculous Robin Hood feathered hat that had miraculously stayed on his head throughout their climb. She opened her mouth against his and kissed him wildly, and Ron was only too happy to return the kiss with the same degree of hunger.

His hands slipped to her waist and pulled her closer, her silky costume slipping almost wetly against his palms.

She pulled away the tiniest bit, panting. “I can’t,” she said finally, gravely. “You’re not —”

Midnight struck and their charmed costumes melted away. Silk became school robes, hose became regular trousers.

“Ron,” she finished weakly, staring at him in shock.

“Pansy?” Ron cried.

She pushed him away violently and burst into tears. Before Ron could get over the shock, she’d slammed out of the common room and disappeared.

***

The sound of the window sliding open caused both Harry and Draco, who had lain down, growing sleepy, to sit upright. “Someone’s coming in the window,” Draco hissed.

It was Ron, followed quickly by Pansy. “They escaped!” Harry cried, and Draco elbowed him sharply.

“Shh!”

They watched together in silence as Ron and Pansy argued and then kissed.

While they were kissing, wide-eyed, Harry turned to glance at Draco, startled to find him so close, close enough that they nearly bumped noses. For an instant, they froze that way, Harry oddly entranced to be so close to someone who looked exactly like him. Almost against his will, he reached up and traced the mirror image of his scar on Draco’s forehead.

His fingers were still touching it when midnight struck and it melted away, as did his own dark hair, his eyes. Instead, Draco’s gray eyes met his, looking startled.

Harry let his hand fall away and opened his mouth to say something, but the slamming of the portrait interrupted him.

Draco grimaced. “That didn’t go well.”

Harry started to crawl out of the tent, but Draco held him back, and Ron, looking shocked, slowly made his way upstairs. “Don’t go,” Draco whispered. “Stay with me.”

Letting himself slowly sink back into the nest of blankets, Harry couldn’t quite meet Draco’s eyes. He wasn’t feeling quite so giddy any longer, and it had something to do with the disconcerting reminder that he wasn’t sitting here beside himself, he was sitting here with Draco.

“Alright,” he replied, and it was silent for a while. The alcohol was now making Harry very tired, and he leaned against the wall, his arm pressed against Draco. “Sleepy,” he yawned.

Draco smiled at him and nodded. He wasn’t at all surprised when Harry’s head dropped down to rest on his shoulder, because whiskey always seemed to make everything seem like a good idea at the time. Instead of jerking away, he patted Harry’s head and shifted him so that his head was on his lap instead, which would be more comfortable. With a tiny, contented sound like a cat, Harry snuggled closer and fell asleep.

Draco, hand resting on Harry’s shoulder, soon fell asleep as well.

4 

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow ;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow ;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below ;
But nothing drear can move me :
I will not, cannot go.
--The Night Is Darkening Around Me, Emily Jane Brontë

Harry dreamt that he was flying, almost as if he were on a broomstick except that he wasn’t. It was raining, and he was low enough as he passed over a large pine forest to reach down and touch the treetops. The sky tilted around him suddenly and he could no longer control his body. He fell from the sky and landed in the center of the forest, in a clearing, and the ground was covered in fresh snow. Malfoy was waiting there, leaning indolently against a tree trunk and watching him, a smirk on his face. From Harry’s vantage point, on his back in the snow, he looked to be upside down. “What are you doing here?” Harry asked, no accusation in his tone.

“Waiting,” Malfoy said with an easy shrug.

“For what?”

“Whatever is supposed to happen, I suppose. My destiny or yours, it does not matter which.”

“Why?” Harry asked, feeling oddly like a child. He was beginning to get used to seeing the world upside down and suddenly could not imagine what it would be like to stand before Draco and see him right-side-up. Upside down and inside out… that was the way it was supposed to be. “Are our destinies the same?”

“Oh no,” Draco said solemnly, shaking his head. “Not the same at all but opposites. No cycle can be complete without both a beginning and an end, but after the cycle is finished, you can never quite see where one begins and the other ends. Completion.”

“What?”

“You destroy me, I destroy you. Together we complete one another but that completion is destruction.” Draco smiled. “Stand up, Harry, you’re looking at it backwards, you can’t expect it to make sense that way.”

“I like it when you’re upside down,” Harry murmured. “It makes it look like the moon paints you silver from bottom to top, rather than top to bottom.”

Draco laughed. “Who isn’t making sense now, Potter?”

“A star never hits the ground if it falls upside down,” Harry said.

“The blood must be rushing to your head,” Draco replied, oddly gentle. “You’ll start seeing things the right way around soon enough, I promise you.”

And then he woke up, because he needed to vomit. The strange sickness was worse than ever and, for a few tense moments, Harry worried that he was about to die. The whiskey certainly hadn’t helped. He lay on his back for the longest time, taking deep breaths and remembering the strange dream. It made no sense.

What made even less sense, however, was the sudden realization that he was lying on his back in a mess of blankets on the floor of the common room with his invisibility cloak draped over a Cleansweep.

And then he remembered and sat up with a yelp. The movement nearly made him sick, his head aching worse than before.

Draco was gone, and he wondered nervously if the entire thing had just been a hallucination brought on by too much to drink. Draco’s whiskey bottle still lay on the floor, however, and Harry stared at it in shock.

He crawled over to the Medication Potion Chest and dug through it, pulling out the Hangover Potion someone had thoughtfully left there. He drained it and instantly felt a little better.

He was still in the common room, feeling too nauseous and weak to go to the hollow, when Ron came downstairs, dark bruises under his eyes. He’d obviously not gotten much sleep the night before. When he saw Harry, he scowled. “You never came back!”

Harry blinked. “Ron? What time is it?”

“Nearly time for breakfast, where were you last night? You never came back to get me, I got locked in the tower!”

“I, umm, drank too much and forgot. Sorry.”

“We had to climb out the window,” Ron said tightly. “How could you just forget?”

“You should have just waited until morning, I would have let you out!”

Ron’s eyes narrowed. “Harry, what’s going on? You said that as if you knew she’d be there… as if you planned it.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply and then slowly closed it, thinking fast. “Well…” he began. “Um.”

“‘Well um’ is not an answer.”

“Ron…”

“What?”

“Was it really that bad?”

“Well…” he thought for a moment. “Um.”

Harry grinned. “You kissed her!” He thought it better not to mention the fact that he and Draco had been watching.

“I didn’t know she was Pansy!”

“Does it matter? Why’d you kiss her?”

“Because she was funny and smart and smelled like flowers! And she looked like Aphrodite!”

“Notice that’s the last of your reasons!” Harry pointed out with a smirk. If he’d thought about it, he would have been appalled. After all, Harry never smirked. Malfoy smirked.

Ron scowled. “What’s going on?”

Harry sighed. “Alright. Ron, Pansy likes you. She had nothing to do with the plan last night, didn’t know about it, but she likes you. And I thought maybe, if you got past the fact that she was a Slytherin and therefore The Enemy, maybe you could like her too.”

“Harry, Slytherin isn’t the enemy, Malfoy is the enemy.”

Harry’s eyes widened a little. “He is not!”

“…What? You hate him!”

“Of course!” Harry said quickly. “I just meant that all of Slytherin is the enemy, not just Dra—Malfoy!”

Ron’s eyes narrowed again. “Then why did you try fixing me up with Pansy?”

Harry’s mind went blank. Finally, he shrugged. “Does it matter? Do you like her?”

“It doesn’t matter! You were wrong, Harry, she doesn’t like me, when she found out it was me, she took off screaming.” Ron licked his lips, trying not to look as hurt as he felt. “See? She couldn’t stand the sight of me.”

“Not true. Trust me, Ron, she’s practically in love with you. Talk to her. She was probably scared.”

“Slytherins don’t get scared,” Ron argued, even as he remembered how terrified she’d looked on the roof, how she’d confessed to being afraid of heights.

“Yeah, they do. Talk to her.” Harry smiled.

“Maybe…” Ron still felt unsure, and Harry, feeling slightly stronger than he had when he’d first woken up, smirked again.

“C’mon. Breakfast time.”

***

Draco was late for breakfast, he hadn’t even gotten back to his dorm until dawn, and he was just making his way out of the common room when Pansy hissed from the shadows, “Malfoy. I have something to discuss with you.”

He squinted into the darkness. “Pansy? That you? What are you doing skulking about by yourself?”

“Waiting for you.” She stepped out of the shadows and he studied her face in silence. Her eyes were swollen and red and it looked as though she had been crying.

“Things not go all that well?” he asked innocently. He remembered, of course.

“You set that whole thing up!”

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“Draco.”

He sighed. “Come on, let’s go to breakfast, I’m starved, and we’re going to be late for Potions if we don’t hurry. We’ll talk about it after. I promise.”

She looked reluctant but let him pull her out of the common room and all the way to the Great Hall. Draco sat beside her and both were unusually silent as they ate, and both were far more aware of the Gryffindor table. It was loud and jovial as usual, as opposed to Ravenclaw’s dignified quiet discussions, Hufflepuff’s laughter, and Slytherin’s aloof, sneering disgust with the entire affair. The only ones who were not acting normally were Potter and the two Weasleys. Potter was staring with disgust at his plate, looking sick, most likely hung over, and the Weasel was staring off into space thoughtfully and kept darting furtive glances at Pansy. The Weasley girl was obviously feeling the effects of the whiskey in the punch.

“Quite nasty of them to make us go to class the night after the Ball, isn’t it?” Draco asked Pansy, who shrugged morosely and continued pushing her porridge around.

Draco sighed. “Listen, Pansy, surely it wasn’t that bad.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She stood up quickly, and instantly, Weasley’s eyes snapped up to watch her. Pansy didn’t notice. “I’m going to Potions, I’ve got to finish up my assignment before class starts.”

“I’ve already done mine, do you want some help?” Oddly, he felt as if he had to make something up to her, though he wasn’t sure what. She hadn’t even told him what had happened the night before. And besides, he didn’t want to be near Potter any longer than necessary, until he sorted out just how he was going to tell him off for the night before. It had been Potter’s fault, of course. There was a reason Draco never drank in public. It made him too nice. He hated being nice.

“Sure, if you want,” she said with a shrug. “Let’s go then.”

They walked to Potions together, taking a seat in the back near the wall, and Draco helped her quickly scribble the last few answers to the questions they’d been given the day before. Class began to fill up and it was only a few moments before it was due to begin when Potter, Weasley, and Granger walked in together. Granger led the way to their usual table and Harry made to follow, with a nervous glance at Draco. Weasley, however, with a set and determined look on his face, strode right over to Draco’s table, standing in front of Pansy.

She looked up at him in stony silence.

“I need to talk to you,” Weasley said.

“Go away. You’re blocking my view,” she snapped.

“There’s nothing to see,” he replied easily.

Draco watched him through his eyelashes, smirking a little. Then, in an unprecedented move that drew shocked whispers from the entire class that had all started gawking when Weasley had first came over, Draco gathered his things and stood up. “Take my seat,” he said lazily, smirking again.

Weasley blinked in surprise and Pansy hissed. Before she could grab Draco and force him to sit back down, however, Weasley slid into the newly abandoned seat, trapping Pansy against the wall.

The only available seat in the room was right next to Potter, and Draco rolled his eyes. “Figures. I thought we were trying to prove that fate doesn’t exist,” he mumbled, slipping into the seat. Before he could begin lecturing Potter, Snape arrived and class began with a lecture on Fraicher Potion. A complex mixture of exact quantities of the blood of Grimloires, the scream of a Hippocampen (which solidified upon touching frozen granite), and three split hairs of a barnyard pig from Arkansas, it was the only known cure for the deadly rash left by contact with dried phoenix guano. Another lesson in what was proving to be a long, boring phoenix unit.

They were given an assignment to work on for the last ten minutes of class, and no one at Draco’s table said a word. Granger kept glaring at him, and Potter was steadily ignoring him, working on his scroll. His hands were stained in an ink Draco recognized. It was the ink he’d made and left in the hollow.

“You should wash your hands, Potter,” he drawled.

Potter jumped a little, dropping his quill and inspecting his hands. There was a bright red flush high on his cheekbones. “I didn’t have time,” he said, shyly. “After breakfast, I mean.”

Draco grinned and would have delighted in teasing him more, if only to see how bright he could make Potter’s blush grow, except Granger chose that moment to say rather stiffly, “Honestly, Malfoy, I’m trying to work. Do shut your mouth. Besides, I happen to know that Harry’s personal hygiene is no business of yours.”

Potter shot her a glare and Draco nearly laughed out loud at it. It was oddly endearing, the way his face had just gone a thousand times brighter.

“Oh, by the way,” Draco said silkily, causing Granger to look up suspiciously and Harry to slowly go very pale. “About last night…”

“Malfoy, not now,” Harry hissed.

“Last night? What about last night? Harry, you were gone for a long time, you never came back, where were you?” She glanced from Draco to Potter and back again, her eyes very narrow.

Potter seemed to be trying to shut Draco up with his eyes, begging him not to say anything, and Draco gave in with an amused smirk. “Well, if his hygiene is none of my business, Granger, I’d say the way he spends his nights is certainly none of yours.”

He had no time to say anything more, however, because class ended and, just as it did, Pansy started shouting.

“I don’t want to listen to you, you stupid Gryffindor bastard!” she cried, standing up so quickly that her chair nearly fell over. “Leave me alone!”

Weasley was looking rather stricken but Pansy didn’t seem to care. She swept her things off the table and flounced out of the room, and Draco rolled his eyes. “Nice, Pansy. That was graceful,” he mumbled, and Potter shot him a sideways glance and smiled.

“Oh, shut up!” Draco snapped. “Go talk to Weasley, he looks like he’s about to die of humiliation. I’ll talk to her.”

He walked away, but not before he heard Granger hiss, “Harry, did he just talk to you? What did he say?”

Pansy’s fury lasted all the way to DADA, and then, just outside the classroom, she burst into tears.

“Bloody hell, Pansy,” Draco said firmly, grabbing her arm and tugging her away from the Ravenclaws who were staring at her from inside the classroom. “Not in public.”

“But Draco!” she wailed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me!”

“What do you mean?” he pulled her inside an empty classroom.

“I hate him!”

“I thought you liked him!”

“I do.”

“Well then?”

She shot him a baleful glare through tear-spiked lashes. “You didn’t hear his voice when he found out it was me.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, nothing. But it wasn’t what he said but how he said it!”

“But he didn’t say anything!”

“But he said it so disgustedly!”

Draco took a deep breath. “Pansy. He may have been a little surprised, but if you like him, you’ll give him a chance to explain.”

“All he wants to explain is that he never should have kissed me to begin with and that he hates me,” she mumbled.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Not even Gryffindors would go through all this trouble for that.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Talk to him.”

She thought for a moment. “What if he laughs at me?”

“You’re a Slytherin. If he laughs at you, the rest of us will tear him apart.”

She laughed. “That would lose us house points.”

He shrugged, “Doesn’t matter. Come on, we’ve got to get to class.”

Pansy nodded and followed him out of the empty room. The lesson had already started and they lost twenty house points for being late, but at least Pansy didn’t snivel all through the rest of the class, and Draco figured he had done the professor a favor.

***

“Well,” Hermione said, in that voice of hers that implied she knew what was best and Ron had better listen to her better judgment. “It isn’t as if you really liked her, after all, Ron, is it? I mean, just because someone locked you two in a tower and you were forced to cooperate does not mean that you two should… should go steady, does it?”

Harry rolled his eyes, taking a bite of pudding. It was lunchtime, and Ron had been moping about Pansy’s rejection all morning. The only bright spot in Harry’s day so far was that she had stopped asking about the night before and what Malfoy had been referring to. “What if he does like her?”

Hermione shot him a quick glare. “It’s not about that,” she said, “because he doesn’t. Do you, Ron?”

Ron scowled. “It doesn’t matter whether I do or not, does it? She hates me!”

Hermione patted his shoulder and said brightly, “There, there, Ron, no use going on about it. After all, she is a Slytherin, and we all know what they’re good for!”

Both Ron and Harry looked blank. “Snogging senseless?” Harry suggested.

Hermione started to choke on the pumpkin juice she’d just sipped. “What? Harry, what? I meant that they were good for nothing! Don’t tell me you’ve decided to start snogging Slytherins in forgotten towers, please, don’t say it!”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh. Oh. Me? No! Of course not! I was talking about Ron! Because, err, he obviously enjoyed snogging Pansy and…umm… I was thinking it must have been…fun.” He cleared his throat and then finished defiantly, “Besides, Hermione! Who on earth would I have been snogging? I’m far too busy with Quidditch and stuff.”

“Well,” she said suspiciously. “There is the matter of you sneaking out alone to go who knows where in the middle of the night, and Malfoy…what was he going on about? Maybe that Invisibility Cloak of yours is supposed to be a big secret, but I’ve been under it enough times to know it exists, Harry Potter, and you haven’t fooled me. Where do you go at night? And why are you always late for classes?”

Mention of the cloak nearly made Harry choke, but before he could stammer a reply, he noticed that Ron had gone strangely silent, and that the red-haired boy kept darting furtive glances at the Slytherin table. Harry glanced over his shoulder and instantly knew why. Draco and Pansy had arrived, late, and were now having a heated argument. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, however, because even in the midst of an argument, a Slytherin never raised their voice. It was an unwritten rule and should a Slytherin ever take the time to shout, everyone would take immediate notice.

Harry turned back to Ron, feeling badly suddenly because his friend’s face was glowing bright red and he looked miserable. “Hey,” he said. “Want to go flying before next class? I’ll let you use my broomstick.”

Hermione hissed. “You’ll both be late for class and you know it! Harry, that’s ridiculous, we’ve only got ten minutes left and it’ll take you that long to get your broom!”

Ron ignored her. “D’you think she likes him?”

“Who?” Harry asked.

“Malfoy.”

Harry snorted. “No. I told you, she likes you… she’s just doing it in a very… Slytherin fashion.”

“By pretending she hates me?”

Harry shrugged. “Apparently that’s how Slytherins show their affection. C’mon, let’s go fly or something. Play chess. Anything. Coming, Hermione?”

She shook her head even as Ron stood to follow Harry out of the Hall. “Still hungry,” she said, waving them away. “Don’t be late for class, though.”

Harry rolled his eyes and he and Ron started for the door. They were nearly there, when suddenly, Pansy shouted, “Oi! Ron!”

He froze and the Hall went silent. The unthinkable had happened; a Slytherin had raised her voice. They were all staring at her in shock, and Ron turned slowly, defensively. Pansy shot Draco a furious look, hissed something to which he shrugged lazily and smirked, and then came towards them, walking like a woman on a mission.

When she was close enough, Ron opened his mouth to speak but he never got the chance. Pansy glanced over her shoulder at all the people watching in fascination, pressed her hand to Ron’s chest, shoved him against the door, and kissed him hard.

“There,” she called to Draco, once again shouting. “Never call me chicken again, Draco Malfoy!” She turned back to Ron, who was looking rather faint, and smiled like a cat. “I’m sorry. He said that the only reason I ran yesterday was that I was scared.”

“Were you?” Ron asked shakily.

Just to prove that she wasn’t, she kissed him again.

“Weasley! Parkinson! There will be no copulating against School Property, and I assure you, those doors belong to Hogwarts!” McGonagall shouted from the teachers’ table. Pansy smiled challengingly at Ron and walked away, leaving him holding onto the door handle for balance and trying, unsuccessfully, to catch his breath.

“Told you,” Harry said mildly, glancing back at the Slytherin table where Malfoy was watching him with a smug little grin. “It’s just the way Slytherins show affection.”

***

Harry only realized that Ginny was purposely avoiding him after class, when he walked into the common room. She squeaked, picked up all her things as quickly as she could, and took off to her own room.

“What’s with her?” Harry asked Hermione.

She glared at him. “I heard about what you did to her last night, at the ball, Harry. That’s horrible! Taking advantage of her like that!”

For a moment, Harry couldn’t remember what he’d done. Then he gasped. He had, after all, left her waiting by the punch table for him. He’d forgotten to go back, feeling too sick and weak. It was lucky for him that Draco had taken care of her for him! “Oh, I didn’t mean to!” he cried. “Does she hate me?” Which, he decided ruefully, wouldn’t be all that bad. He just didn’t like her like that. He had tried, Merlin knew, he had tried.

“Of course not. But you had better apologize to her, and hope you do it before she gets over her humiliation and tells Ron. He might just kill you.”

Surely being killed was too harsh for simply abandoning her at the ball. However, Harry forgot about the entire thing a short while later, as he snuck away and made his way to the hollow. Malfoy had left a short, smug little message and Harry laughed as he read it. “You realize now that you’re going to have to deal with her shagging in your dorm room every night before bed, don’t you, Potter?”

He snickered to himself a little and replied, “Trust me, Malfoy, if there is one thing that Ron won’t do before I do, it’s lose his virginity. It’s just unthinkable. His mother would kill him. Harry reread that and his eyes widened. He scribbled it out furiously, until not a word was legible, because if there was one fact he wanted to keep from Malfoy, it was that he was a virgin. After all, Malfoy had no problems making him feel inferior without bits of knowledge like that!

Before he had time to write anything else, he heard someone shouting his name and dropped the notebook in surprise. Swearing softly to himself, he crammed it back into the hollow with the quill and the ink and hurried towards the voice. It was Ron, who had just raised his cupped hands up to his face to shout again. When he saw Harry running out of the trees, he waved.

“What?” Harry panted, his guilt intensifying. Somehow whatever this thing with Malfoy and the journal was, it seemed a thousand times more wrong when he was directly confronted with the fact that he was keeping it from Ron.

“Hermione said you’d come outside, I figured you’d be practicing Quidditch or something, what were you doing?”

“I— walking. Why?”

Ron’s face was lightly dusted in a blush. “I was talking to Pansy after class and she got a special pass to go to Hogsmeade, she thinks we should go. Me and Her. And I wanted to know if you wanted to come.”

Harry frowned. “Ron, if it’s supposed to be you and her…”

He shrugged. “But what if… if it’s just a joke? Just pretend? You know? She could be making a fool out of me.”

Harry sighed. “Ron, she’s not. Trust me. Go with her, for the love of Merlin, just go with her.”

Ron shrugged. “But Harry, what if—”

“Ron! Honestly!”

He laughed. “Alright, alright, I’ll go.”

They walked back to Hogwarts together in silence, Harry still feeling uneasily guilty.

Ron and Pansy went to Hogsmeade together that night, and Hermione was at the library studying, and Harry quickly became bored and a little lonely. Rather than sit in the common room playing games with Seamus and Dean, waiting for Ginny to show up so that he could apologize for abandoning her the night before, Harry decided to go visit Hermione at the library.

She was bent over her book, but apparently not that absorbed in it, because as soon as he came in, her head snapped up. “Wonderful thing you’ve done, Harry,” she said sarcastically.

“What?”

“Ron! I haven’t seen him all day, he’s with Pansy.”

“They’re getting along, then?” he asked with a grin.

“Getting along? Do you realize what you’ve done? Now he’ll never be around! Never! His grades will be affected, we’ll never get to see him, she’ll corrupt him with her Slytherinness, and it’ll be all your fault!” She seemed as if she were fighting tears.

“Hermione, c’mon, it’s not that bad! You should be happy for him.”

“Happy? How can I be happy?” she cried. “My best friend is—”

“Happy.”

Her shoulders slumped. “But how can he be happy if he’s not with me— I mean, not with us?”

“Ah.” Harry sat down beside her. “Hermione.”

She glared at him. “What?”

“You don’t like Ron, do you?”

She blinked; then she laughed. It sounded rather brittle. “Of course not! Not like that.”

“Hermione —”

“Trust me, Harry, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Harry decided to let the topic drop and searched for another. He glanced around. The library, which was usually quite empty, was rather busy, with six other people studying in pairs or alone. Harry was surprised to see Malfoy sitting alone at the back, a large text Harry recognized as the very same one he used for Divination open on the desk in front of him. He was scowling furiously, his forehead creased with concentration, and wasn’t even aware that Harry had entered the library.

“Isn’t it strange? I never thought I’d see that in a thousand years,” she hissed, following his gaze.

“He’s studying,” Harry said with a shrug. “Surely even Malfoy studies.”

“I’ve never seen him in the library before,” she argued.

“Who honestly cares? Aren’t you supposed to be writing an essay? What is it about?”

“A comparison of Quidditch and football for Muggle Studies. Help me research it?” She rolled her eyes. “It’s boring. Quidditch is all well and good to watch, but I don’t like reading about it.”

“Well, that’s strange,” he teased. “Generally you like reading about everything.”

She glared at him and pushed some books over for him to read through, and they worked together in silence for a while.

Finally, frustrated beyond all comprehension, Hermione slammed her book shut. “I’ll finish tomorrow,” she said with a scowl. “I’m going to the common room, are you coming?”

“Uhh, I think I’ll just finish this book first,” he said distractedly.

Eyes narrowing with suspicion, Hermione snatched the book away. “Cutting Edge Quidditch: A Biography of Puddlemere? Harry, how was this going to help me with my essay?”

“Puddlemere has lots of social relevance!” he argued in a hushed voice.

“Whatever,” she snapped, looking cross. “I’m going.”

She left, and Harry glanced around, still a little disoriented, and nearly everyone who’d been there before was still there, including Malfoy. Moments later, without even thinking about it, Harry was out of his chair and standing over him, Quidditch book forgotten on the table.

“Hi.”

Draco looked up, startled. “Oh. You.” He scowled. He looked as frustrated as Hermione had, so Harry didn’t take it personally. After so many years of being Hermione’s friend, he’d gotten used to being snapped at when homework wasn’t going well.

He smiled. “Yeah. Nice to see you too. Where… where did you go? Last night, I mean. I remember you were there, and then you weren’t when I woke up.”

Draco marked his place in the book and considered for a moment. Finally, he shrugged. “I woke up just before dawn and had to get ready for class,” he said. “Besides, it would have been awkward. Oh, and by the way, I blame that entire fiasco on you, and if you ever, ever so much as breathe one word about that bloody tent, I swear, Potter, you’ll regret it.”

Harry laughed. “My fault? If that’s what you want to believe. It was your whiskey.”

“Yeah, well, nothing happened, so it’s alright.”

It was silent for a while, and Harry tilted his head thoughtfully. “What…just what could have happened that didn’t?” he asked, puzzled.

Draco glanced up at him, rolled his eyes and mumbled, “Mmm. If you don’t know, Potter, I’m certainly not going to inform you.” He turned back to his book, and Harry read over his shoulder, recognizing the page as one he’d studied the week before, on advanced palmistry. Draco’s one finger was tracing the lines as he read them over to himself, the other flat on the desk as he studied it, trying to make sense of it.

“That’s the head line,” Harry told him.

Draco scowled up at him. “What?”

“You’re on the page about heart lines only you keep tracing your head line. That’s why it’s not making sense.”

Draco glanced back at his hand and scowled again. “How am I supposed to know the difference?”

“That’s what we learned in basic palmistry,” Harry said with a grin. He grabbed a chair, spun it around, and straddled it. “Let me show you.”

Draco looked up at him, shrugged, and said, “Whatever. We already slept together, I can’t see how palm reading could get any weirder.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Slept together?!” he yelped. “We didn’t! Sleeping with and sleeping beside are completely different!”

“Either way. It was a good thing I did leave before you woke up, because sleeping next to you was bad enough! I can only imagine how horrid it would have been, waking up next to you.”

Harry’s mouth opened as he struggled to think up a reply, and then he slowly closed it, at a complete loss. Draco nodded curtly, and held out his hand. “I’m glad we worked that out, we can forget it ever happened,” he said stiffly. “You may read my palm now.”

Seeming to have trouble meeting Draco’s eyes, Harry cleared his throat and took his hand. “R-Right then. It’s not so hard.” He turned it palm up, and flattening it with his other hand. With his finger, he traced the different areas, naming the fingers, the mounds, and the lines. Draco listened, more interested in the strange feeling of Harry’s finger brushing lightly along his palm. It made him shiver. Almost like waking up with Harry’s head on his lap had—but then, thinking about that was hardly accomplishing the goal of forgetting it ever happened.

Harry paused suddenly. “What is that?” he asked, pointing to Draco’s fingertips, which were all stained red.

Draco grimaced. “Cherries,” he said with a shrug. “I was eating cherries.”

“Where on earth did you get cherries? You’re not allowed to eat in the library!”

Draco grabbed the bowl of cherries that he’d hidden under a book. “Father grows them, do you want one?”

“Grows them? In winter?”

“In a greenhouse. They’re quite lovely. Pitless. It took him years to develop the proper hybrids to grow that way.”

Harry studied the bowl of cherries for a moment in silence. Eat Lucius Malfoy’s cherries? In the library? It just didn’t seem right.

However, he took one, popping it into his mouth and biting it. It burst against his tongue, sending a rush of sugary sweet liquid running down his throat. “Mmm,” he said, just because Draco was watching his face carefully for a reaction. Harry wasn’t really a fan of cherries.

Nodding with satisfaction, Draco slipped the bowl back under his Arithmancy book so that Madam Pince wouldn’t confiscate them. Then, he glanced back at his hand. “I thought you were going to read my palm, not just name all the lines and stuff.”

“What? You want me to actually read it?”

“C’mon, I’ve got to have a whole essay on my palm done for Monday and I can’t even remember the names of all those horrid mounds, and you just told me!”

“Malfoy, honestly, what’s in it for me? Another lecture on how we should forget it ever happened and that I’m totally to blame? That’s all I seem to get every time we do anything, and I can only imagine how personally you’d take it if I actually touched you.”

“I’ll take responsibility for it this time,” Draco said magnanimously. Harry didn’t look impressed, so he added quickly, “And I’ll read yours afterwards.”

“Oh, come on, you just admitted that you can’t do it!”

“Not that I can’t! That I don’t want to apply myself to learning how. Why bother, when you already know how and you’re sitting right here?”

“Why not just make it up?”

“Well… You do owe me, you know, after last night.”

Harry snorted. “It was your whiskey!”

“But still. The fact remains that you owe me and I don’t want to waste my time coming up with lies, so you may as well just do it. I want to find out what evil things my palm has to say about me. Surely you’re interested?” He certainly didn’t sound evil, pleading that way, even if there was a strange wicked gleam in his eyes, and Harry was about to give in when he said, “I’ll let you have more cherries, I’ve got lots.”

Though he didn’t much like them, Harry shrugged. “Fine then, give me your hands, both of them.”

Draco happily held his hands out to Harry, who bent low over them, studying them in the dim light. “You had to pick the darkest corner of the library, didn’t you?” he grumbled, and Draco shrugged.

Harry started with the fingers, running his thumb down the length of Draco’s little finger, testing its firmness, the angle at which it jutted away from his ring finger, and the shape of the nail. Then he glanced back at the textbook and cleared his throat rather loudly. Draco was worried. He jerked his hand away and held it up to the light, studying the littlest finger doubtfully.

“It says I’m going to die, doesn’t it?” he asked, still doubtful.

“Erm, not exactly.”

“What, then?”

Harry pulled the book closer and read out loud. “When the little finger is straight, long, and leaning out to the side away from the ring finger, it indicates that you are not bound by conformity, new ideas and strange behaviors excite you and… erm, you may find yourself exorcising the extra passions aroused by such excitements on the kitchen table or some other such unorthodox location.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “It doesn’t say that! School books can’t say things like that!” he whispered, sounding scandalized, pulling the book towards him and rereading it silently. “…Oh. It does.”

Harry snickered and grabbed Draco’s hands again. “Long fingers,” he mumbled, checking the book again. He didn’t release Draco’s hands this time, and Draco watched him as he scanned the pages, though he didn’t read this bit out loud, promising to tell him everything when he’d finished.

It was quiet for a while, and Draco studied Harry while he bent over his hands, tracing out every contour and line with gentle brushes of his fingers. It was incredibly intimate, mostly because Draco didn’t know what secrets about him Harry could be learning, and also because he’d never been this close to Harry before. Close enough to see the very, very faint freckles just under his eyes that probably didn’t count as freckles at all, they were so pale and barely noticeable. Close enough to see the way his throat moved when he swallowed and the way the tip of his tongue traced his lower lip when he was concentrating.

Draco found his own tongue mirroring the motion and, a little disturbed, he sought to distract himself, grabbing a cherry and slipping it in his mouth.

Harry glanced up and scowled, snatching his hands back. “Don’t move,” he snapped.

“I wanted a cherry,” Draco said with an easy shrug.

“Well, wait until I’m done.”

“You’re taking forever.”

“You have the most sexual hands I’ve ever seen.” He said it in an absent, distracted tone, and Draco studied his hands in admiration.

“They are quite lovely, aren’t they?”

Harry looked up again, rolling his eyes. “Stop distracting me.”

Draco had by now sucked all of the juice out of the cherry in his mouth and he swallowed the rest, gazing wistfully at the bowl.

“I want another cherry.”

“Wait until I’m done, I said,” Harry said absently, tracing Draco’s lifeline again and calculating the angle it made with his headline.

Draco tugged at his hands and Harry tightened his grip, his lips compressing in irritation. Without even glancing up, he reached over, grabbed a cherry, and brought it to Draco’s lips. Surprised, Draco opened his mouth, letting Harry push it inside.

“There. Stop squirming.”

Oddly enough, Draco now felt the need to squirm more than ever.

He tilted his head to the side, watched Harry mumble quietly to himself, and bit the cherry absently. Bittersweet liquid exploded in his mouth and he grimaced, swallowing quickly. “That one wasn’t good, give me another.”

Harry snorted, but still reached for a cherry, though he, again, didn’t look up. Not used to being so blatantly ignored, even if Harry was feeding him and studying his hands like his life depended on it, Draco instinctively decided to get Harry’s attention. Rather than letting him put the cherry in Draco’s mouth, he pulled it out of Harry’s grip with his tongue.

Harry’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, but Draco turned his head, studying the textbook with an angelic and innocent look on his face. “So, find anything interesting yet?” he asked brightly.

“Erm, what? Oh. I’m not done. Almost.”

Draco nodded, rolling the cherry across his tongue absently, and watching Harry as he, again, tilted Draco’s hands into the light.

This time, Draco didn’t even have to ask. As soon as he swallowed, Harry picked up another cherry and held it to his lips, glancing up with a smirk. He bit it quickly, and a bit of juice stained his lips.

“Slob,” Harry teased, running his finger along Draco’s lower lip. Draco’s eyes widened at his touch, and before he could think about it, or the strange humming feeling in his blood and skin, he pulled Harry’s finger into his mouth, sucking lightly and wrapping his tongue around it.

Harry’s eyes widened and he flushed, his hand, the one that held Draco’s, went limp. His breathing had become rather labored, and Draco lazily ran the tip of his tongue along the length of Harry’s finger, licking off the last drop of cherry juice.

Without a word, Harry gently pulled his finger from Draco’s mouth and, clearing his throat, picked Draco’s hands up again.

“I’m nearly finished,” he said, voice soft and husky.

“Mmm. Then I can do you,” Draco said, distracted and still trying to figure what, exactly, he was doing.

“What?” Harry’s head snapped back up.

“Your hand,” Draco clarified, rolling his eyes. “I can try to read your hands. That was the deal, remember?”

“That, and cherries,” Harry mumbled, shifting awkwardly. “You said you’d give me cherries.”

Draco smiled rather wolfishly. “I will, Potter,” he said. “As soon as you finish inspecting my gorgeously sexual hands.”

“I’m finished.” Harry dropped his hands again, almost as if they burned. There was an intense flush on his face.

“And?”

“It’s very sexual.”

Draco only smiled in reply, and Harry sighed. “Your heart line is long and curvy and ends between the second and third fingers, indicating a tendency to freely release all emotions and passion that are normally supposed to be controlled and restrained by the head. You live by the philosophy, “If it feels good, do it, and do it now”. You’re well balanced in pleasing yourself and your partner. You’re very moody and never dull. The lower mound on your hand is larger than the others and it means you’re very physically aware and you thrive on touching and… umm, sensual pleasures. Pleasuring your body is, umm, a primary…need. You should get a job in a massage parlour. Or as a professional whore, but that’s just me speaking there.” He laughed nervously, and watched with wide eyes as Draco picked up a cherry, slipped it into his mouth, and sucked it thoughtfully.

“I already knew all that,” he said finally. “What else?”

“Well, the colour of your hands indicate that you like ‘meshing all parts of your body, mind and spirit during sexual stimulation’. And that’s about it, really.” He shifted nervously.

“Lovely,” Draco drawled, rolling a cherry between his fingers. “Good job, Potter, here,” he held the cherry to Harry’s lips and it took him a startled moment to remember how to work his jaw muscles.

Warm cherry juice ran down his throat, and he licked his lips. They weren’t as bad as he remembered, cherries.

Draco took his hand and stared at it rather blankly for a moment. He glanced at the book a few times, back at Harry’s hand, and then at the bowl of cherries. He grabbed one, shoved it in his mouth, and sucked it thoughtfully as he struggled to remember which was the heartline and which was the headline.

Harry opened his mouth to help him, and Draco anticipated it, shoving a cherry past Harry’s lips before he could say a word. Making a surprised sound in the back of his throat, Harry chewed the cherry, and Draco turned back to his palm.

“All these lines,” he said, tracing them. Harry’s palm was rough from his broomstick. “The horizontal ones. I think they mean…” He glanced at the book and read out loud, “Decisions are made with the heart and sentimentality rules over logic.”

“So not true!” Harry cried. The other people in the library shot him a glare, and he repeated, more quietly, “That’s not true.”

Draco smirked. There were only three cherries left, and he ate one quickly, and lifted the other to Harry’s mouth. Harry took it with his tongue, quickly, and ate it just as fast.

“Not true,” he mumbled again.

“You don’t know how to eat a cherry,” Draco said in exasperation. “You’re not supposed to just swallow it! You’re supposed to suck it. To get all the flavour out.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Why does it matter?”

“It just does. Here, there’s one left, do it right this time.”

“How?” Despite himself, Harry was curious. Maybe there was a reason he’d never liked cherries. He’d been eating them wrong.

“Make it last as long as you can.” He held the last cherry up, and Harry glanced from Draco’s challenging eyes to the cherry and back again.

He’d never backed down from a challenge before, and he wasn’t about to start now.

Aware that the other people in the library could glance over at any moment and see him eating berries from Malfoy’s hand, Harry licked the berry first, brushing Draco’s fingers with the tip of his tongue. Draco sat up a little straighter, his breath catching, and Harry suddenly realized he had a bit of power over him, as strange and alien as that power was.

Draco was feeling the same things Harry had felt when Draco had licked his fingers.

Armed with that knowledge, and determined to prove to Draco that he was much better at eating cherries despite his lack of experience, Harry nibbled the cherry a little, delicately, while Draco still held it. It made a terrible mess, juice staining Draco’s hand as Harry flicked his tongue again and again against Draco’s fingers and the cherry, lapping up the juice. Finally, he wrapped his tongue around the berry and pulled it into his mouth, swallowing it and glancing up at Draco triumphantly.

It wasn’t what he expected. Draco looked almost as if he had been hit by a train. His eyes were glazed, his breathing very heavy.

Harry grew worried. “I didn’t bite you, did I? I’m sorry, I —”

“I’ve got to go,” Draco said, standing up so suddenly, he nearly knocked his chair over. He gathered up his books and hurried out of the room before Harry could get over the shock of his abrupt departure.

5 

Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it
Far apart, far away in the gusty time of year --
Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking,
I know your secret, my dear, my dear.

-Did You Never Know, Sarah Teasdale

Later that night, Harry’s strange illness began to come back, and he was getting worried. After all, it had been weeks now, and if it was just the flu, surely it would be gone by now. However, given his status as The-Boy-Who-Lived, he was quite sure Hermione would flip out and he didn’t want to worry anyone. It was probably just a cold.

Still thinking about the strange incident in the library, Harry made his way outside to the hollow. It was abandoned, but the cool air seemed to soothe the illness a little, and Harry sat at the base of the tree for a long time, eyes closed, breathing deeply. It was very quiet and he was feeling very weak. The feeling left, however, and he opened the book. The last thing written was Harry’s scribbles from earlier, Malfoy hadn’t written anything.

Twirling the quill, Harry thought carefully before writing, “Are you alright, Malfoy? I didn’t mean to scare you or whatever, I didn’t mean anything by it, I don’t even know what I was thinking! Maybe the whiskey hadn’t worn off yet! Do you think that could be it? Because I certainly wasn’t feeling like myself… I was having problems breathing. That could be why… I mean, I haven’t been feeling all that well lately. That could have been why. Yes. So I’m sorry. I hope you’re not angry.”

It was rather late by the time he got back to the common room, and he made his way upstairs, falling asleep nearly instantly and dreaming that he was pregnant with Hermione’s baby and that was why he was ill in the evenings and the nights. He woke up, understandably feeling quite disturbed.

It was Saturday, and he spent the day practicing Quidditch with his team. When he got back to the common room, Hermione was waiting and she smiled triumphantly. “Finished my essay, want to read it?”

He read it over, commented on it, and they started a game of chess. The game was interrupted, however, when the portrait flew open and Ron staggered in, bruised, bloody, and grinning. “That’ll teach him!” he crowed, flopping down in a chair and wiping his bleeding nose on the back of his sleeve.

“That’ll teach who?” Harry asked.

“Ron, you’re bleeding!” Hermione cried.

“Crabbe. The bugger tried pounding me again!”

“Looks like he succeeded…” Harry said.

Ron shrugged. “I did worse to him. Now he’ll leave me and Pansy alone!”

“Ron! You didn’t fight him!” Hermione begged.

“No, Hermione, I let him pound me into a bloody mess and didn’t try to defend myself at all,” Ron replied sarcastically. Hermione fell back against the back of her chair weakly.

“You’ll be expelled for sure,” she told him.

“It was self-defense!”

“Doesn’t matter, you still fought him.” Hermione grabbed a tissue and started cleaning his face up. “I’ll wipe the blood off and then heal it,” she told him, voice gentle now. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Ron lied.

After they’d taken care of Ron, Harry snuck out to the hollow, needing to get away. Ginny had come back into the common room and had glared at him from her own chair, and he hadn’t been able to stand it. He didn’t quite have the guts to apologize either, and thought that waiting until she was less angry was the best course of action.

Malfoy had written earlier that day. “Potter… you sexually repressed little boy. Never mind. Don’t even think about last night, ever again, alright? Forget it. Maybe I caught whatever it is that’s got you feeling sick. Yes, if that’s what you want to believe, go right ahead. As I said before and I’ll say again, if you don’t understand, I’m certainly not going to waste my time explaining. Besides… it won’t happen again.

“Had to clean Vincent up this afternoon after Weasley was done with him. I’m nearly impressed with the level of damage. Snape wasn’t quite so impressed, so just to warn you, he’ll probably be doubly furious with you come Monday morning. The whole lot of you Gryffindors will pay for this. I’m quite looking forward to it.

“I’ve been trying to write my palm reading essay all day and I just can’t get it right. No matter what I try in that course, the nasty woman doesn’t like it. Is it my fault that I’m going to be rich, handsome, and successful my whole life? Some of us are just not BUILT for tragedy and she seems to only like reading about it! It’s driving me mad.”

“Sexually repressed?” Harry mumbled indignantly. “It’s not my fault I’ve got priorities. Like…Quidditch.” Somehow, it just didn’t sound as convincing as it had all the other times he’d said it.

Unnerved, Harry decided not to comment on the first part of Malfoy’s note.

He smiled a little, took out his wand, and whispered, “Accio homework.” His own palmistry essay floated from the castle and he snatched it from the air, reading over it quickly. “Here,” he wrote in the journal. “My class did that assignment last week, and I got full marks. Just copy mine and change the tragedies. Instead of your lover being killed in a car crash, write that they die in ritual sacrifice or something. Tragedy, Draco, it’s all about tragedy. Trelawney rarely cares if it’s true, as long as it’s full of sorrow. Make it up. Ron and I have been doing that for years. Oh. And if I were you, I wouldn’t mention the sexual nature of your hands. She’d think it was too good to be true.”

He carefully folded the scroll and slipped it inside the book.

***

The next day was Sunday and Harry spent the day hiding from Hermione, Ron, and Ginny in the South Tower, the same one where he had locked Pansy and Ron on Halloween. He didn’t like to spend too much time considering why he was avoiding them. After all, he just wanted to be alone. The South Tower was the best place for that.

It was November now and the tower was drafty. He sat in the same room where Pansy and Ron had been locked, careful to keep the door open, and wrote letters to Sirius about everything (almost) that had been happening. He left out any mention of Malfoy, because he decided it wasn’t even worth talking about. Really.

He was lying to himself and he knew it; but Harry, again, did not really want to spend too much time considering why.

He went to the hollow late that afternoon, and when he opened the notebook a small red leaf fell out, fluttering to the ground. Curious, he picked it up.

It felt like leather in his hand and was the most vibrant shade of scarlet he’d ever seen, with gold-tipped edges and veins of the same bright yellow. He studied it thoughtfully for a moment, wondering how it had gotten in the book and hesitantly considering that maybe Draco had left it there for him. The image of Draco seeing this leaf, as beautiful as it was, and picking it up with the intention of leaving it for Harry felt incongruous. There wasn’t a message either, and Harry almost let the leaf go so the wind could carry it away, when he realized that his Divination homework wasn’t there. So Draco had been there since Harry had left it.

Maybe it was in thanks for the homework?

Whatever it was, he tucked the leaf in his pocket and sat down to write. He was in an oddly thoughtful mood. “ I dreamed of you the other night, did I tell you? On Halloween, it was probably because you were there. It was very strange, I was flying through the air (not on a broom though) and then I fell and landed in snow and you were standing there and said something about destiny and seeing everything backwards. It was the night after the Halloween Ball, so I figure that the whole destiny thing came from that, because our whole plan was to prove fate wasn’t real, right? However, the rest of it I can’t even begin to sort out. Oh, and Ginny’s been avoiding me ever since the Halloween Ball! I feel badly for it, but I much prefer this to having Ron constantly pushing her at me, trying to get me to fall in love with her. Hermione says I did something horrible to her and must apologize before she tells Ron, who’ll kill me for it, but honestly, abandoning her at the Ball is hardly a capital offence, is it?”

He put the book back and studied his hands in disgust. They were stained, again, with the ink from the hollow. It seemed to be a permanent state these days, though he hadn’t noticed until Draco had commented on it in Potions. The ink wouldn’t wash off.

The sun was starting to set and Harry felt a headache coming on. He made his way back to the castle feeling suddenly exhausted and as weak as a kitten.

***

Nighttime was always Draco’s favourite time to check the journal. He hardly ever went to sleep before midnight anyway, and it was always easier to sneak away when all of his housemates were asleep. He didn’t feel up to discussing with any of them the reasons he was doing this. Writing little notes to Harry and all that. Not that any of his housemates would ever have the courage to ask. He was Draco Malfoy. His secret nighttime wanderings were never remarked upon.

“Dreaming of me, Potter?”, he wrote, after reading Harry’s last message. “How cute. As for little Weasley, chances are that if she hasn’t told her brother yet, she won’t, so I’d just enjoy the break from her clumsy attentions, if I were you.” Not to mention, of course, that she was most likely upset over something much more than being abandoned at the Ball. But if Potter hadn’t found out about that yet, he most likely wouldn’t, and that suited Draco perfectly.

The next morning was Monday, and Draco was exhausted in Potions class. He hadn’t slept well after returning from the hollow, he had to fight a ridiculous craving for cherries, and was having a hard time paying attention to the lesson. As, apparently, was Potter.

Snape was in a foul mood already, even Draco could tell that. When he asked the class if they could remember the three primary ingredients to the Draught of Phoenix Tears and only Granger’s hand went up, he turned to Potter. Draco followed his gaze and, rather than the usual anticipation at the thought of Potter being called on in class, he only felt vague stirrings of pity. Potter looked wretched, pale, and weak.

“How about you, Mister Potter?”

Rather than try to pretend he knew what was going on as he usually did, Potter just blinked, his eyes looking rather glassy. “What?”

“Three primary ingredients in the Draught of Phoenix Tears.”

Potter licked his lips. “Uhh, the first would probably be phoenix tears.”

“Very good, Mister Potter,” Snape said sarcastically. “And the other two?”

There was dead silence. Granger seemed to be trying to psychically send the answers to him, Weasley couldn’t seem to look at him and was staring at his desk, and Snape’s cruel smile, which used to delight Draco, was growing by the second.

“Oil of an infant Mandrake root and belladonna!” Draco called, before pausing to think. He winced as every student in the room turned to gawk at him. Snape turned slowly, and Potter’s eyes widened and flew to his. Draco cleared his throat almost nervously.

“Excuse me?” Snape hissed.

“Those are the other two primary ingredients, sir.”

“Yes, I am well aware of that. However, I had been waiting for Mister Potter to reply.”

“He didn’t seem to know the answer.”

“And you thought to help him? How… noble, Mister Malfoy. But the fact of the matter remains that Mister Potter has demonstrated again and again that he is failing to pay attention in my classroom!” Snape wheeled around to glare down at Potter. “In fact, I believe you still owe me a detention for one of your past transgressions! I must admit, for Resident Hero, Potter, you are quite a disappointment. In fact, I honestly must say that perhaps you’ve allowed your hero status to go to your head and feel as if you can just float through my class! I regret to inform you that no one passes my class without effort, Potter. And so, I further regret—” though he didn’t look it at all —“to say that unless you can prove to me that you’ve been paying attention, I am going to have to fail you. And of course, you are aware that without a passing grade in Potions, you will not be graduating.”

“Please, sir, he does pay attention, he does. He’s just not feeling very well today!” Granger cried.

Snape glared at her and she fell silent. “In order to prove to me that you’ve paid attention, you will write me a essay summarizing everything we have discussed this year—and be glad that I am not making it cumulative of all seven years. Five scrolls should be enough, if you write small. Knowing your illegible scrawl, you’d better make it seven. You must receive a passing grade on this, or you will fail my course.”

There was a tense silence in the classroom. It had been an unusually harsh punishment, and even Draco was looking at Snape with reproach in his eyes.

“Only you will be required to complete this, Potter, as your detention for your past transgression. None of you,” he glared at the other Gryffindors, Granger in particular, “may assist him in writing it or I will fail him.”

Potter looked even paler than before, except for the bright red flush on his cheeks that let Draco know just how furious he was. He didn’t say a thing, however, and Snape nodded, satisfied, and went back to teaching the lesson.

After Potions, Draco felt a little more awake and went about the rest of his lessons with more energy, though he was oddly worried about Potter. He had looked very ill in class and Draco knew that Granger hadn’t been making that up as an excuse. When he finally had a free moment, after his last class, he hurried down to the hollow.

Potter had already written a long, furious letter about how much he hated Potions and Snape and how he was going to fail out of school and it was all Snape’s fault.

“It’s your own fault, you know,” Draco replied. “Honestly, you could at least try to pay attention! But even I’ve got to admit that he was rather harsh today… After all, even I could tell you were ill. Are you alright, Potter? And you know you must have looked half-dead if I am bothering to comment on it, don’t you? Because honestly, even if you were dying, I wouldn’t care! But you’re not, are you?” He scowled to himself and scratched that last bit out before continuing. “And I suppose, as I’ve got some free time now, because I’ve already studied all of this year’s Potions lessons over the summer, that I can help you write it, if you want. I’ve got nothing better to do.”

He read over it once more, still scowling a little and wondering at this spark of philanthropic goodness that had come upon him, unbidden. But it wouldn’t be fair for Potter to fail because he’d been ill in class one day!

Why he cared, Draco didn’t consider.

***

Hermione was hovering over him worriedly. “You were feelings sick and you didn’t tell me until now?” she lectured, tucking a blanket around him. Classes had just ended and she had helped him up to the common room, Ron carrying his things.

“Just weak, honestly, I’m fine,” he replied, though he was slightly worried. He had woken up with a killer headache and, while that had gradually faded, the weakness he always felt in the mornings and at night hadn’t, and he had gone through his classes in a daze. Hermione had helped him through them, all the while mumbling under her breath about sending him to the hospital wing. She started on again about that now.

“Honestly, Harry, you’re ill, you’ve got to go to the hospital wing!”

“I don’t want to cause Dumbledore to worry, I’m sure it’s just a cold or something,” he argued.

She looked uncertain and turned to Ron. “What do you think?”

“You know how he hates the hospital wing,” Ron said, nodding. “And he’s not puking or anything, he’s just tired. I think you’re overreacting.”

She bit her lip. “Maybe. Alright, Harry, I won’t force you to go now. But I want you to list everything about the illness. I’ll write it all down and then go see if I can research it in the library. It could be a curse or something, and if it is, then we’ve got to find out how to stop it and who’s doing it. Ron, get me some parchment and a quill. Harry, are you sure there’s nothing I can do to make it better?”

He grimaced. “I just want to sleep, really,” he said, fighting to keep his eyes open.

She petted his forehead. “There, there, of course you do,” she cooed, treating him like a little boy. Ron returned with the parchment, and Harry told her everything he could remember about the illness. After she’d flounced off to the library, dragging Ron with her and telling Ginny to watch over him, Harry stared blearily into the fire in the hearth.

Ginny was sitting nervously across from him, reading a novel, and she kept darting swift, wide-eyed glances at him, as if waiting for him to speak.

And there was something he was supposed to say to her, though at the moment, Harry was too weak to remember what. Something about the Ball… and the punch… Oh, bother. He still hadn’t apologized for abandoning her by the punch table.

He’d tell her tomorrow, when he wasn’t so tired…

***

Hermione and Ron had returned late from the library. Ginny had covered Harry with a blanket and gone up for bed, leaving him curled up on the huge chair, and he looked altogether too comfortable for them to wake him and move him, especially given his illness. They left him there and snuck up to their own rooms.

Harry woke up suddenly around midnight, jolted awake by unsettling dreams he couldn’t remember. He was feeling a good deal better than before and couldn’t fall back to sleep, so he grabbed his cloak and made his way down to the hollow.

The moon was bright and cast the brittle, cold night in silver shadow. His breath fogged before his face and it took Harry a few moments to realize that it was snowing. He stepped out of the castle onto the large stone steps and blinked in surprise. A light dusting of snow covered the ground and was still falling heavily from the sky, swirling in the sharp breeze. It looked almost like another world.

It was very quiet, and he stepped off the stairs and into the snow hesitantly, not wanting to destroy the fresh snow with his footprints.

His was the first pair that cut through their snow, walking straight to the hollow, shoulders hunched for warmth and hands shoved in pockets, crimson and gold scarf tied tightly around his face.

The hollow was sheltered from the wind so here the snow fell more slowly, fluttering down to the ground, where it was thicker than in the open grounds where the wind could blow it around. His fingers were nearly numb when he reached into the hollow and pulled the book out, grabbing the quill and ink as well. He brushed a spot in the roots off and sat down, reading Draco’s last message. He frowned and bent the book in the moonlight to make out the words that had been scribbled out and smiled musingly when he realized what they had said.

“I didn’t know you cared,” was all he had time to write, before he suddenly became aware of eyes, watching him. He looked up, and dropped the quill. “Draco.”

***

Draco paused in the trees, feeling the strange urge to turn and run. After all, he had known Harry would be there, he had seen his tracks in the freshly fallen snow, too clear to have been very old, and only one set going towards the hollow, none returning. Still, he had followed them. Following the footprints was a different matter entirely to standing there, face to face with Harry, the book on Harry’s lap, the quill lying in the snow beside him. It was the first time they’d seen each other there in the hollow since the first night, on the way back from Hogsmeade, and the many things they had been in denial about since this entire thing had started were there now, staring them right in the face. It had been easy to pretend that things between them weren’t changing before, when the only evidence was writing in a notebook in a hollow no one else knew about. Now, whatever the change was, it was evident in the slight widening of Harry’s eyes as they met Draco’s, the slight flaring of Draco’s nostrils as he inspected Harry, sitting in the moonlight, with the book lying open in his lap.

Things could have gone any number of ways then. Draco could have laughed scornfully and walked away, Harry could have flung the book aside, they both could have denied everything and anything and run as fast as they could back to their dorms and forgotten anything had ever happened in that hollow. Or they could say something, anything, to break the fragile, tense silence.

There was nothing either could think to say.

Finally, Draco walked forward the three steps separating him from Harry, and extended his hand down to where the other boy sat on the root of the hollow tree.

After a moment, Harry slipped his ink-stained hand into Draco’s smooth, clean one, and let Draco pull him up to his feet.

The book dropped, unnoticed to the ground, lying in the snow beside the quill, and Harry accidentally kicked the vial of ink over. It soaked into the snow, staining it black, and the book, the quill, and the ink well would be buried, forgotten, in snow by morning.

Harry licked his lips and let go of Draco’s hand. “You’ll help me study, then?” he asked huskily

Draco smiled. “Nothing better to do, honestly.”

Flashing him a grin, Harry nodded. “Alright then.”

They walked back to Hogwarts side-by-side, their returning paths marked in the snow, fresh and sharp beside the softer footprints they’d left on their way to the hollow.

Both would be covered in snow by morning.

6

All seems so enigmatic to the core
Bringing all that you left and made leave
Seeming to bring the things you adore
Like air below water that needs to breathe

Shadows can only stretch so far
And the fear is nothing but blind
Deflective like the edge which left it's mark
But cut through ribbons in your mind.

--Imagine One Other, Donna Taylor

“So, what?” Harry asked, glancing up from the parchment. The library was dark except for a torch flickering on the wall beside the table, casting one side of Draco’s face in light, the other in shadow.

Draco looked back down at the parchment. “So?” he said. “The ground mendleroot plants react with the nettles and create a poultice that slows the spread of the poison,” he said. “It’s simple.”

Harry bit his lip and looked back down at the equation in Draco’s notes. It had been a week since he’d been assigned the essay, and, after the first day of attempting to organize Harry’s notes into something legible, Draco had decided that they were a lost cause. Far too messy, far too lacking. So he had brought his own after that; neat, orderly.

He wrinkled his nose. “Where do you see that?”

Draco sighed, standing up and walking to the other side of the table. He stood directly behind Harry, reached over his shoulder, and pointed to the first figure. “Mendleroot’s active substance is M2. M2 is added to this here,” he pointed, and Harry’s eyes followed the motion. “The result is MO3, which, when applied a wound infected with this particular poison, cancels the toxicity.”

“Oh.”

Draco nodded, satisfied, and returned to his seat. He rested his elbow on the table, chin cupped in his hand, and watched while Harry, his finger where Draco’s had just been, worked through the equation again, his lips moving as he talked himself through it silently. Then he completed the paragraph he’d been writing on the subject carefully.

Finally, he nodded, glancing up at Draco. “I think Snape makes it up and makes it all as confusing as he can just because he likes to.”

Draco laughed. “No. It’s real. You didn’t think potions just worked totally on magic, did you? Even magic has rules. He’s just teaching us to manipulate the rules. That’s how new potions are created all the time, by people who memorize the rules and then break them. After all, you can’t break a rule if you don’t know the rule.”

Harry grinned, rolling his eyes. “Sure, whatever, I intent to make a fortune playing Quidditch.”

“Some of us aren’t so lucky,” Draco said with a smirk.

“Oh, shut up, you’re just as good as I am. The rest of your team is just rubbish, that’s all,” Harry said, matching Draco’s smirk.

“Better than you, even,” Draco drawled.

Harry snorted distractedly, flipping through a few more pages. “How am I supposed to write a essay on all of this when I don’t even remember learning it the first time?”

“That’s why I’m helping you.”

Harry, his fingers buried in his hair, glanced up at him. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Can’t have the Boy-Who-Lived failing Potions,” Draco said easily, shrugging it off.

“No, really, why are you doing this?”

Draco met his eyes and held for a long moment, before he looked down at the parchment on the table. “I told you, Potter,” he said quietly.

“To make up for blaming me for the whiskey incident?” Harry suggested brightly.

“Umm, that was your fault.”

“To make up for being irrational in the library that night?”

“I believe I behaved quite rationally, thank you very much, and we said we’d never talk of those things again!” Draco snapped. “That’s not it either.”

“Nothing better to do,” Harry said dryly. “I remember.”

There was silence as Harry flipped through a few more pages, scanning Draco’s notes and growing more and more frustrated. Finally, he pushed the notes away and rested his forehead down on the table. “I can’t,” he mumbled. “My head is aching and I feel sick.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed and he slid the parchment over towards him, glancing at his notes. “It’s alright. Just remember that you left off at this page and we’ll take it up tomorrow night.” He watched Harry for a long moment, but Harry didn’t lift his head. Draco tilted his head to the side consideringly. “Potter. Potter, hey, you alright?”

Harry lifted his head and grimaced. “Fine. I just…” he shrugged, closing his eyes.

“Yeah.” Draco nodded slowly. If Potter thought he didn’t notice the pale cast to his face or the shaking of his hands, he was crazy. But it wasn’t for Draco to comment on. He was just there to teach him Potions, nothing more. “We can meet again tomorrow. It’s Saturday, all day long. Remember?”

Harry smiled, his eyes brightening. “Wow, you’ll really let me go early tonight?”

Draco, surprised at the sudden brightness in Harry’s face, laughed. “Are you implying that I never let you go early?”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “C’mon, admit it, Draco, you’d keep me up all night if it was up to you.”

Draco’s eyes widened and he swallowed a sudden thickness in this throat. “What?”

But Harry didn’t hear. He was already packing up his things, and when he glanced up, it was to smile again and say brightly, “But don’t think I’m not grateful for all your help, especially since you could get in trouble for this and all.”

“He never said I couldn’t help you, he only said the Gryffindors couldn’t,” Draco said, following Harry’s example and packing up his things, worriedly considering the strange thoughts Harry’s innocent words had sent shooting through his mind.

Harry stood up and swayed suddenly, squeezing his eyes shut, and Draco jumped to his feet, watching carefully. Catching his balance, Harry opened his eyes, startled to find Draco watching him so intently. “What?”

Sighing, Draco shook his head. “Nothing. So, tomorrow, in the South Tower, early.”

Harry nodded. They’d decided that, rather than risk Snape finding out about this and not seeing it quite the way Draco did, they’d only study together late at night in the library, or during the day in the South Tower, where no one ever went.

They walked out of the library together, quietly, and, at the door, Harry stumbled and Draco reached out instinctively, grabbing his arm. Harry swore softly under his breath and Draco slowly let go of him. Neither of them spoke, and Harry turned left, Draco right, walking away from each other.

He stopped himself from checking over his shoulder a thousand times to make sure Harry was alright, and each time the instinct came over him, he’d scowl and swear softly to himself. Finally, he paused at the corner and turned, calling out, “Are you alright, Potter?”

But Harry was already gone.

***

“Did you find anything?” Harry asked, slipping into his room and finding Ron waiting for him. “About what’s wrong with me?”

Ron’s eyes were very narrow. “Where were you?”

Harry blinked, startled. “Working, Ron, I told you I’d be at the library working on that ridiculous Potions thing.”

“Until this late? Harry, tell me the truth. Where were you?”

“Working. You don’t believe me?”

“It’s hard to say. Honestly, Harry, the way you’re running about so often these days, I don’t know what to believe.”

Harry slumped into bed, closing his eyes. “Ron, please, I’m exhausted, don’t do this now. Did you guys find out what’s happening to me?”

“Hermione looked for a bit but we haven’t found anything.” His voice was terse. “We’re going to look again tomorrow.”

“I’ll be working all day. Fun.” Harry pulled the blankets over his head.

***

Harry was the first to get to the tower before the crack of dawn the next morning. He had brought a blanket to sit on and a pillow, as well as his books, and by the time Draco got there twenty minutes later, Harry was curled up in his blanket, fast asleep, the pillow clutched to his chest, his head resting on his Potions book.

Draco smirked. “Potter. Hey, Potter. Wake up.” He nudged him with his toe, but Harry only mumbled in his sleep, his eyes staying shut.

Sitting beside him on the floor, Draco watched him for a long moment before sighing and nudging his shoulder. “You can’t absorb the knowledge, Potter,” he teased. “You’ve got to actually open the book.”

Finally, Harry’s eyes opened and he sat up, blinking sleepily. “Draco?”

“Yeah.”

“Bloody hell.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Didn’t mean to sleep.”

“I know.” Draco inspected his face silently, noting the black shadows under his eyes. “You look like shit.”

“Thank you,” Harry said dryly. He opened his book. “Let’s do this. I’m ready.”

“Mmm. Right then. We left off at Sleeping Potions.”

They studied until lunch, when Harry took a short break and they ate, drank, and talked about everything and nothing until the sandwiches were gone, and then Harry almost cheerfully went back to writing. He wouldn’t have said, of course, but the only reason Harry could stand all this writing, had the incentive for all this writing, was because of Draco and his patient teaching. It was almost worth hours of working just to see the brief nod and smile Draco would flash every time Harry managed to figure something out, flawlessly repeat the ingredients for a potion, or explain the difference between various different consistencies of sleeping draughts. He wouldn’t consider why it mattered, Draco’s smile, Draco’s approval. Because that really wasn’t the issue. The issue was that he was learning Potions and he couldn’t wait to see Snape’s face when he passed.

“What about this?” he asked, staring down at Draco’s notes with a frown. “We did this last month.”

Draco looked at it and scowled, flipping the pages quickly. “Not important,” he mumbled, not looking up. “Trust me. Not important.”

“But wasn’t that —”

“You don’t need to know about it!” Draco snapped, and Harry backed off.

“Alright, sorry,” he said with a scowl, glancing at the page Draco had turned to. “We’ll skip over to the phoenix stuff.”

An hour later, frustrated, aching, and feeling weaker than ever, Harry laid his forehead down on the book. He was lying on his stomach, Draco sitting nearby, and he was sick to death of Potions.

“Alright?” Draco asked, watching him.

“No. I can’t do this.”

Draco came over, sitting beside him on the blanket Harry had brought, and quickly reading over the notes. “It’s easy.”

“It’s not.”

Draco snorted. “Give me a minute to show you. Trust me, it’s easy.”

“How do you know all of this?” Harry asked, propping his chin up on his hand and looking at Draco. “I mean, you know everything about Potions!”

“I learned it all this summer,” he said, lying down beside Harry.

“Why?”

“Nothing better to do.”

“Oh, you mean the rich and powerful Malfoys didn’t go off on vacation?” Harry teased.

Draco flinched and Harry frowned. Before he could ask, Draco looked back at the book. “None of your business, Potter. Back to work.”

“Fine, sorry,” Harry muttered, turning back to the book. With Draco lying right beside him, their arms pressed together, and Draco’s fingers moving through the information as he spoke, it came a lot easier to Harry, who now only had to focus on one thing. Before, paying attention to the notes, he’d been distracted by Draco.

Now Draco was close enough for his breath to brush Harry’s ear if he turned his head, and Harry lay his chin down on his folded arms, content to listen to every word Draco said.

Hours passed, and they lay like that together, flipping through the pages, Draco pausing every now and then to quiz him, tease him, or say something sarcastic, and Harry absorbed everything he said, not because he particularly cared about Potions, but because the sound of Draco’s voice, so close beside him, was sending shivers down his spine, and it was a rather pleasant, tingly feeling.

He closed his eyes and had nearly drifted off to sleep again when Draco said quietly, “Things change, Potter.”

He opened his eyes. “What?” he asked sleepily.

Draco blinked, looking surprised. “I thought you were asleep.”

“No,” Harry yawned. “I’m just tired. Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“Why?”

“I suspect I’ve got a cold,” Harry said with an easy shrug, not meeting Draco’s eyes. Instead, he stared down at his hands, frowning. They were still spotted with black ink.

Draco laid his hands over Harry’s, and Harry’s eyes flew wide at the contact. He jerked his head up, nearly smashing into Draco’s, who was watching him intently. “Harry,” he said. “It’s not a cold.”

Harry scowled. They were very close now, and Draco’s hands were still resting on top of his. Not a gesture of affection, they weren’t holding hands. Draco’s hands were just… there. “It’s a cold,” Harry said stubbornly. “How would you know?”

“You don’t sneeze or cough. You get dizzy and weak. It’s not a cold.”

“You sound just like Hermione,” Harry sneered. “She’s trying to force me to the hospital wing.”

“You won’t go?”

“I hate it there.”

Draco sighed. “Even I can tell you’re sick.”

“I’m not. Besides, like you care.” Harry darted a quick, nervous glance into Draco’s eyes, seeing them narrow. Was that worry? Annoyance? He couldn’t tell. “I’m alright, Draco. I am.” He licked his suddenly dry lips and saw Draco’s eyes flicker lower, studying them.

It was too much and he rolled away quickly, wondering why his entire body was tingling, why he was breathing quickly. Sitting up, with his back to Draco, Harry said shakily, “I’d better go. Ron and Hermione will worry.”

“Go on then, Potter,” Draco drawled, snapping the book shut. “Run away. It’s what you’re good at.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder with a scowl. “May I remind you, Draco, that you ran out of the library like you were scared to death?”

Draco scoffed. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I might understand more than you’d care to think. I don’t know if I can study tomorrow.”

“Of course.” The same dry, vaguely amused tone.

Harry didn’t question why. He got to his feet, nodded once, and hurried from the tower room.

He was walking passed the Great Hall when Hermione came running out of it, shouting his name. “I’ve got it,” she cried. “Harry, we’ve been looking all over for you! I’ve found directions for a potion!”

“We’re at a magic school,” Harry snapped, feeling irritable. “It’s not that hard to find potion directions.”

“But I found one that’ll tell me whether or not there’s a spell on you to make you weak!”

She grabbed his arm and dragged him to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom where a cauldron was bubbling. “It’s not a hard process. You lay really still and I sprinkle the potion over you and if there is a spell on you, it’ll show us!”

“Isn’t the potion boiling, Hermione? It’s going to burn!” Harry protested nervously.

“It cools the instant it’s off the fire, rather like molten metal, only faster,” she said. “The potion’s got to brew overnight, so it’ll be ready tomorrow morning. And then we’ll do the spell. Ron convinced Myrtle to go visit the mermaid in the prefect’s bathroom, so she won’t bother us. This potion will help narrow down what could be wrong with you. If it’s a spell, you’ve got to go directly to Dumbledore of course. It might be You-Know-Who… I’m nearly done with the potion now, I’ve just got to add the last ingredients.”

“Where’s Ron?”

“We split up to search the castle for you.” She shot him a suddenly suspicious glare. “Thought you were studying, but you weren’t in the library…”

“Yeah. It was, umm, so crowded there, I went somewhere quieter.”

“Odd,” she said coldly. “It was empty when we went there.”

Harry cleared his throat. “Odd. I’d best go find Ron while you finish that up. Thanks, Hermione, for doing this.”

She sighed and smiled. “You’re my friend, Harry. I can’t just let you be ill without trying to help.”

He smiled at her and hurried out of the bathroom, relieved she’d let the topic drop.

***

Strange dreams of being lost in mazes in the middle of the blizzard haunted Harry that night, and he woke up hours before dawn because the worst headache he had ever felt drove him from sleep.

He opened his eyes and then closed them with a whimper, even the soft light of the stars too bright. The pain was so intense that nausea threatened and he lay very still for a long time, breathing through his nose. The pain only started to ebb as the sun started coming up, and even then, it was still intense.

Hermione had made him a few headache potions the night before, and he fumbled in his trunk, pulling one of them out and downing it quickly. It dulled the pain but did not take it away entirely, but with the edge softened, he was able to take stock of the rest of his body. He felt weaker than ever, and he itched, like a thousand insects were inside his skin.

He stood up, losing his balance, and leaning over the trunk, his hands flat on the top. The red leaf from the journal was there, tucked under the buckle and still crimson red. He stared at it until the dark spots stopped dancing before his eyes.

Taking a deep breath, he straightened to find Ron watching worriedly from his bed.

“Better do the spell,” he said solemnly.

***

“Lay still,” Hermione said quietly, taking Harry’s hands and flattening them, palm up, on the floor of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. She frowned and picked one hand up, studying it. “Harry, Malfoy was right.”

Harry’s eyes flew open. “What?”

“Your hands. They’ve got ink all over.” Hermione traced the streaks of black.

“Harry’s always been a messy writer,” Ron said defensively. “He didn’t grow up writing with a quill, you know.”

“Well, neither did I, and I manage to avoid getting it all over,” she said dismissively, dropping his hand. “Close your eyes, Harry.” He did, and she took a scoop full of potion. “I’m going to start with your feet and work my way up, sprinkling your face last. You shouldn’t feel anything, maybe a slight tingle. Are you ready?”

“Get on with it, Hermione,” Ron hissed nervously.

“I’m cold,” Harry whispered, shivering. He was covered in a cold sweat.

Hermione glanced over at Ron worriedly and then said soothingly, “You’ll be fine, Harry, we’ll help you.”

She started sprinkling at his feet, biting her lip and watching the clear liquid sprinkle down on him. As soon as the liquid touched him, it glowed a faint, green colour. “There’s a spell,” she whispered. “It’s all over him.”

Harry moaned softly. “My head,” he whimpered.

“Keep sprinkling,” Ron said grimly. “It’ll show us where it’s worse, won’t it?”

“If it’s green here, it’s probably all over,” she said.

“Just to see,” Ron insisted.

Hermione sprinkled all the way up his body to his face, and then down his arms. At his hands, she dropped the large spoon. It hit the ground and slid under the sink with a clatter. “Ohhh…” she breathed.

Harry’s eyes flew open. “What?”

“Your… Harry, your hands.”

“What is it? Look, there’s a bit on his mouth, too.” Ron gasped, staring.

Harry lifted his hands, his eyes widening. A bright, luminescent green covered them, reflecting off his glasses. Underneath the light, he could see the black ink spots, staining his skin. “The ink…” he hissed, feeling as if someone dropped ice into his stomach. “It was the ink.”

“What? Harry, what?” Hermione asked, chewing on her lip. “What ink?”

“Nothing. Nothing, I’ve got to… I’m feeling much better…” He got to his feet and stumbled from the bathroom, hands still an eerie green, though it was fading fast as the potion dried.

“Should we let him go?” Ron asked worriedly.

“We’ve got to tell someone,” Hermione cried.

“No, you know Harry hates that! We’ve got to find out what’s wrong with him. Research. We can help him, can’t we?”

“Of course. We’d better go to the library.” She pushed the cauldron under the sink, where she’d already set up wards to hide it, and they hurried out of the bathroom together.

***

“Harry! Harry!”

He stopped, narrowing his eyes and turning slowly. “Ginny, now is not a good time.”

Her eyes were dark with determination and she said, “No, Harry. Hermione says that fretting over Halloween is worthless and I should just confront you, and that’s what I’m doing.”

His headache got a thousand times worse in a heartbeat. “Ginny, listen, I’m sorry about ditching you —”

“You can’t just kiss someone and touch them everywhere you touched me, Harry,” she hissed, pushing him against the wall. It wasn’t hard; he was very weak. “There will always be consequences, Harry. You can’t just play around with me.”

“Ginny, what are you talking about? I didn’t — I can’t… please, I can’t do this now.” He was breathing heavily and felt as if he were about to pass out. The only things holding him up were Ginny and the wall.

“It was so humiliating,” she cried. “First letting you kiss me like that and touch me and then… I was so drunk…”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I never… Oh, fuck. Ginny, it… I’m sorry. About that. Trust me, you’ll never know how much.” He pushed her aside gently and she suddenly noticed his pale face and glazed eyes.

“Harry, are you…” she stepped back, and he smiled distractedly.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “I’m sorry about everything, Ginny.”

“I— Wait! Where are you going?”

He waved vaguely over his shoulder and turned the corner, leaving her behind. Fury was giving him strength he hadn’t had before. It had all been a joke. Draco had been playing with him, laughing at him, behind his back. With Ginny, and the ink…

He made it to his common room and pulled out Draco’s Potions notes, flipping through them quickly. He scowled grimly moments later and tossed them aside, leaving the room again. It was breakfast time now, and he went into the Great Hall, stalking over to the Slytherin table where Draco was sitting with Blaise.

“Malfoy,” he snarled, and Draco jerked with surprise, standing up.

“Potter,” he said quietly, eyes narrowed. “What are you doing?”

“We need to talk.”

“I can’t think of anything of importance we have to discuss,” Draco said, aware of the entire Hall watching.

“I can.”

His eyes narrowed, and Draco studied Harry’s flushed face. “You’re not well,” he said too quietly for anyone to hear.

“We need to talk.”

“Alright! Calm down. Let’s go.” Without another word, Draco took him by the arm and pulled him from the Hall and out the front doors, where no one would be able to hear them.

It was snowing heavily and, a few steps away from the castle, the snow obscured it from vision, and it was like they were in another world. Still, Draco tugged Harry farther from the castle, into the hollow. There, he stopped, spinning around.

“What is it, then?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“It was you. You did something to Ginny the night of the Ball.”

“Is that what this is about?” He laughed scornfully. “It was fun. What more would you expect from me? Because we wrote in a stupid book a few times, I’m supposed to turn into Wonder Boy and never do anything just because I think it’s fun? I’m not you, Potter, and a few notes in a journal won’t ever change that.”

Harry had stopped listening. After all, Ginny wasn’t his main concern. The illness was making it hard to think, and he started scratching at his hands. “I should have known,” he growled. “I really should have.”

“Known what?” Draco asked, narrowing his eyes. “Harry, stop.”

“About the spell! I shouldn’t have trusted you!”

“What spell? Calm down!”

“What have you done to me? What have you done to me?”

“Harry. Nothing. I haven’t done anything! Listen to me!”

He laughed hysterically. “Maybe that’s what you did. Used it to make me feel this way. Is that what you did?”

“Harry. This is mad, stop.” Draco was getting furious. It was easier than being frightened.

“Tell me this is real,” Harry snarled. He stalked closer, narrowed, cloudy eyes inspecting Draco’s face. Nothing much was making sense to him anymore. He ran his fingertips down Draco’s face. “Tell me this is real.”

Draco, eyes dark and cold, said quietly, “What’s real? Potter, what the hell are you on about? This is reality, what else could it be?”

Harry pushed away. “It’s magic! It’s all a trick! You did this to me to hurt me and humiliate me, it isn’t real, it’s not real.”

Draco froze, swallowing carefully, his own anger at Harry slowly draining away and replaced by something that nearly made him vomit. “Harry… Harry, what are you talking about?” he asked carefully.

Harry laughed scornfully. “C’mon, Draco. Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I’d never wonder about these things?”

“Calm down, Harry, what’s going on? Did something happen?”

“Of course something happened! Hermione found the spell you used on me! She found it, Draco.”

“Spell.” Draco’s voice was heavy, his eyes unsure.

“Gobbler’s Ink, Draco. We learned about it, remember. You really should pay attention in Potions class. No wonder you didn’t let me study that page yesterday!”

“Harry, you don’t understand.”

“From the very beginning. The ink you left in the hollow. It wasn’t regular, was it? Gobbler’s Ink, made with your blood,” he sneered.

Draco got angry. “Of course, made with my blood, you idiot! Listen to me!”

“My blood as well.”

“What?” Draco’s eyes widened horribly as realization hit him. “Your blood?”

“I cut my hand and it went all over the place. That first night.”

“Your blood… Oh, I should have known,” Draco whispered, but Harry hadn’t heard.

“‘The first property of Gobbler’s Ink is that, when made with the blood of an enemy, it works like the Imperius Curse,” Harry quoted softly. “It makes the writer follow the orders of the enemy whose blood is in the ink, and the more you use it, the stronger and more powerful the effects.’”

“Harry… Harry, shut up.”

“No! No, I won’t shut up!”

“There!” Draco smiled triumphantly, grimly. “You see? If it worked that way, you’d do it. You’d have to obey my commands. But when the hell have you ever obeyed anything I ever said to you?”

“Never.”

“Exactly.” He took a deep breath. “It didn’t work, Harry. See? It didn’t work. And that was before… before all of this.”

Harry paused, suddenly unsure. “Before all of what?”

Eyes widening a fraction, Draco said carefully, “Whatever this is.” Now that he was no longer furious, he could see a strange sort of fury in Harry’s eyes, and fear as well. Something else was going on with Harry, something that terrified him and probably only added to his anger.

“And what is it?” Harry asked uncertainly.

Something that had no definition, that could go one of two ways. It was apparently up to Draco to decide which way, because the Boy-Who-Lived suddenly seemed to run out of his legendary courage. There really wasn’t a choice to be made. Draco couldn’t see himself choosing anything but this.

He stepped closer, watching Harry’s eyes carefully for any sign of what the other boy was thinking. His green eyes were smoky and, for the first time, Draco couldn’t read them. “Are you alright?”

“You’re changing the subject.”

“I’m not,” Draco replied, feeling somewhat nervous. They were close now, as close as they had been the day before, in the tower, and Draco waited for Harry to move back as quickly as he had then. He didn’t. He just waited and watched with clouded eyes.

“Last chance,” Draco said quietly.

“For what?”

“To run and pretend that it never happened.”

Harry rolled his eyes and it was him who closed the last tiny bit of distance between them. His kiss wasn’t as shy as it would have been, had he not been so ill. It was deep and very hot, because whatever mechanism in Harry’s brain that had caused him to back off the day before had shut down with fever and nothing mattered except carnal desires, and this one was very carnal. His mouth was open on Draco’s, hot and hard, his tongue pushing into Draco’s mouth even as his hands came up to hold the other boy’s face still, though he knew, in some part of his fevered mind, that Draco wouldn’t have pulled away.

Harry pressed so close that his teeth nearly touched Draco’s, the kiss going from wild to violent in an instant, though Draco didn’t mind. After his initial surprise, he had gripped Harry’s shoulders and pulled him closer, his own tongue moving just as hard and fast against Harry’s, as if it were some sort of struggle, a game that neither wanted to lose.

Draco pulled away first, panting loudly. “Harry, I—”

“Don’t want to talk,” Harry growled, kissing him again, and Draco was only too happy to let the words go unsaid. After all, words could keep forever.

It was only when Harry turned his face to the side and then rested his head weakly on Draco’s shoulder that Draco paused to catch his breath, paused to think all of the clamoring thoughts that were screaming in his mind, about how very wrong it was to be tangled up in the arms of Harry Potter. But somehow, so very sinfully right at the same time.

And then Harry’s legs crumpled beneath him and he clung to Draco’s shoulders. Draco would have made some joke about the effect of his kiss on Harry’s strength, but it was then that he suddenly noticed the heat radiating off Harry’s skin. He carefully lowered him to the ground, lying Harry on his back.

Harry was burning up with a fever.

“Shit,” Draco mumbled. “Harry, you’re burning up.”

Harry moaned softly and closed his eyes. “Hurts,” he whimpered.

“No, no, don’t pass out, we’ve got to get you to the castle,” Draco said firmly, but Harry didn’t reply. He’d lost consciousness.

Swearing softly to himself, Draco cast a lightening spell and lifted Harry easily, cradling him against his chest. He hurried back to the castle, talking sternly to Harry all the way, but Harry didn’t hear a word of it.

Rather than wasting time at the hospital wing, Draco went straight to the dungeons, knocking on Snape’s office door. After all, he had a strong suspicion of what was wrong; he’d seen the faint green glow on Harry’s hands.

Snape opened the door and his mouth fell open in shock at the sight of Malfoy carrying Potter, but Draco didn’t waste time with explanations. He pushed past and set Harry down on Snape’s desk before turning back to his professor. “Are there any negative effects to touching or swallowing Gobbler’s Ink?” he asked bluntly.

Snape glanced once at Harry and then back to Draco. “Of course there are,” he hissed. “That’s why I had you wear gloves when we worked with it! That’s why it’s a seventh year potion, it goes without saying that it’s dangerous! You haven’t used it on Potter, have you, Malfoy? Surely you realize that a huge loss of house points would be unavoidable.”

Draco nodded impatiently. “I don’t care, can you fix him? He’s touched it, it’s all over his hands, and he chews his quills, all the time, I’ve seen him, it’s a nervous habit, and I never even thought…” A nervous habit the same way rambling seemed to be one of Draco’s. “He’s ill,” he finished weakly.

“I’m a Potions Master,” Snape snapped. “Of course I can fix him, if it’s not too late already. How long ago did he touch it?”

“At least once a day since the beginning of October,” Draco said quietly.

Snape swore softly, inspecting Harry. “It’s poison, Malfoy. Progressive. Even once touch is enough to make someone ill, but that much contact is very grave indeed. Did you touch it?”

“Maybe a little,” Draco said with a shrug. “But Harry’s got it all over his hands, he swallowed it.” A sudden memory made Draco’s eyes widen. “And… and I may have swallowed a bit. A little bit. I…” He felt his face slowly turn red. “I ate something from his hand and his fingers were in my mouth.” His throat felt like ashes, confessing something like that to his professor.

“Very hungry, were you?” Snape sneered. He rolled his eyes and looked a little sick, and then nodded curtly, using summoning charms to get necessary supplies from his cupboards while still working on Harry. “Mix the Beezle powder and the powered Bicorn horn with warm water, it’ll stop the ink that’s on his hands from soaking into the skin any further. I’ll have to see if it’s not too late to stop the flow of poison in his blood stream.”

“He’ll be alright,” Draco stated, not in any way a question, though he darted a nervous glance at Snape.

Snape scowled. “Perhaps.”

And Draco didn’t ask any more questions.

***

Hours later, Harry lay in a bed in the hospital wing, feverish and drifting in and out of sleep. Snape had done his best with the antidote and now that potion warred with the poison in Harry’s blood, and morning would tell if Harry would survive. Granger and Weasley had heard of his illness and come running, as Draco knew they would. After Snape had given him some of the antidote as well, he stayed away from the hospital wing all day. Dumbledore called him into his office and asked about the circumstances behind the ink, lectured him, talked for nearly an hour, most of which Draco didn’t pay attention to, as worried as he was about Harry. He busied himself with homework until he simply could not stand it any longer. To distract himself further, he grabbed his broomstick and went flying around and around the grounds until the sun had set and Granger and Weasley would have been sent to bed. Then he snuck in to the hospital wing, where Harry slept uneasily.

“Harry?” he whispered, and Harry turned his head, opening his eyes. They were cloudier than ever, and somehow larger than they’d ever seemed before, because his glasses were sitting on the table nearby.

“Draco,” Harry said, licking his lips. They were cracked and dry.

“Alright?”

Harry didn’t answer, but he reached out, trying to grab Draco’s hand. Surprised, Draco took his hand instinctively, and Harry closed his eyes, smiling a little, and slipping back into sleep.

It didn’t last long. He started tossing and turning, jerking his hand away from Draco’s, and mumbling in his sleep. Draco watched him, guilt nearly making him sick. He hadn’t meant to poison Harry, even in the beginning, when he’d first made the ink and left it in the hollow, though his motives hadn’t been pure then. He had never even thought that touching the ink would be poisonous, or that Harry would be thick enough to swallow it.

Harry had gone quiet, his back turned to Draco, and Draco stood up, about to sneak back to his dormitory. The noise caused Harry to turn onto his back, blinking up at him.

“Stay with me,” Harry whispered, and Draco dropped back into his chair in a heartbeat.

“Are you better?” he asked.

Harry whimpered. “It hurts.”

“What hurts?”

“My head.”

Draco touched his fingertips to Harry’s forehead. It was clammy, burning hot. “I’m sorry.”

Harry turned his face into Draco’s hand, and Draco trailed his fingers down Harry’s cheek. They didn’t speak for a long time, and Draco thought that Harry had fallen back to sleep.

He hadn’t. His face still cradled in Draco’s hand and his voice rough, husky with fever, Harry started talking softly, ramblings that, for the most part, made no sense, brought on by fever. Sometimes the words were disconnected, random, and Harry almost seemed to be talking to someone else that wasn’t there, and at other times, they were deeply personal thoughts that Harry probably didn’t even know he had in his mind. It was incredibly intimate, dark, and closer to any human being than Draco had ever been, even if Harry didn’t realize that he was even talking, and probably wouldn’t remember in the morning.

Draco stayed there all through the night, watching over Harry, and sometime shortly before dawn, he started talking softly, telling Harry things he’d never told anyone before. He didn’t do it out of guilt, or any need to talk. He did it because Harry’s fever had caused him to talk in his sleep, and he had told Draco thousands of secrets he’d probably never told anyone. It was only fair that Draco do the same. 

7 

Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.
-William Jennings Bryan

The antidote worked and Harry’s fever broke the next day. He slept deeply, normally, until just after dusk, catching up on all the sleep he’d missed in the weeks of the progressive illness. When he finally woke, Draco was sitting at his bedside, elbows resting on the mattress, chin cupped in his hands, dark shadows under his eyes, and an oddly thoughtful look on his face.

He didn’t notice Harry had woken for a few minutes, and Harry studied Draco’s face silently through his lashes. His mind was muddled, his throat rough, and he was trying frantically to sort through his foggy memories and remember what had happened.

He swallowed heavily, trying to clear his throat, and Draco jumped. “Harry! I-I didn’t know…oh. How are you?”

“Thirsty,” Harry admitted.

“Oh. Oh, yeah, Pomfrey left some potion…” He hopped off his chair and went to a nearby table, pouring the Throat Soothing Potion into a goblet, and passing it to Harry, who sat up and sipped it. It tasted like warm honey and made it easier to talk.

Draco was watching his face carefully, as if waiting for him to say something, anything. Harry couldn’t think of what it could be that he was supposed to be talking about. “It was the ink. You… you poisoned me.”

Draco’s eyes slid away. “Harry, I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly. “Honestly. I didn’t know… it wasn’t supposed to…”

Harry frowned thoughtfully. He vaguely remembered having this argument before but it was hard to pick apart the memories from the dreams. “You expect me to believe you?” he asked, no accusation or anger in his tone, only confusion. “I could have died.”

Draco swallowed. “I know.”

Tilting his head thoughtfully, Harry studied him again, trying to think of something to say, anything to say. He just didn’t know how to make things better. This had only proven what he’d known all along. That he shouldn’t trust Draco. That he should know better. But he wanted to trust him. “Give me a reason to trust you,” he said finally. “What have you done that shows me I can trust you?”

He should have snapped something about how Malfoys didn’t have to prove themselves to anyone, but Draco didn’t. He stared down at Harry in surprise, and then said slowly, “I…if I was trying to kill you, I would have. Last night, when I… You were sick and weak, if I wanted you dead, it would have been so easy.” He said the last bit defiantly.

Harry smiled slowly and whispered, “Oh, I remember. You told me secrets.”

Draco winced but didn’t reply.

“Most of it’s all very blurry. What happened? I… I remember we fought, outside in the snow, but I can’t remember what we really said.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

Draco smiled strangely and shrugged. “Nothing. Nothing happened, nothing at all. We fought and shouted and then you passed out. That’s all.”

“What happened after that?” Harry asked, narrowing his eyes. Strange images that must have come from dreams were flickering in his memory, cloudy and disjointed.

“I carried you back inside and Snape made the antidote and it worked. Simple.”

With the strange feeling that Draco was neglecting to mention something, Harry licked his lips. “Is it better now? I’m alright?”

“I think so.” Draco picked up one of Harry’s hands and studied it. “The ink stains are gone. If only you weren’t so messy, Potter,” he said, shaking his head with a rueful smile.

“So… so, Draco, the ink didn’t work?”

Draco’s eyes slid away from his and he let go of Harry’s hand. “I messed up an important ingredient,” he said with a shrug. “You’re not under my spell or anything.”

Harry smiled but didn’t say anything. He was exhausted, and lay back on the pillows. “It’s alright,” he said sleepily. “It couldn’t have been all that bad, being under your spell. You’re not as bad as you like to pretend.”

Draco snorted. “How would you know?”

“You told me,” Harry whispered, closing his eyes and smiling. “I remember.” He fell asleep with a low purring sound in the back of his throat, nestling into the pillow.

Draco studied him for a long moment, before turning away. He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re wrong,” he said quietly, but Harry didn’t hear.

***

Snape, still sour and cold, came early the next morning to check on Harry, making sure all traces of the potion had been destroyed. Harry watched him through his lashes, awkward because he didn’t know how to deal with his professor any longer. He didn’t know how much Draco had told him.

Snape didn’t speak either, until after he’d checked Harry over. Then, his voice was curt. “Stupid thing to do, Potter, poisoning yourself.”

He opened his mouth to point out that he hadn’t poisoned himself, and then snapped it shut. After all, Snape surely knew at least that much. “It was an accident,” he said instead of setting things right. After all, it had been an accident. Just not his. He didn’t know why he was protecting Draco when Snape probably already knew that Draco was the only one with the potion skills besides Hermione to brew the Potion. It was for the same reason that he refused to question why he didn’t hate Draco for the entire affair. His mind refused to focus on just what that reason was, however. Instead, he concentrated only on Draco’s voice, talking for hours, whispering secrets about himself that didn’t matter, so much as they were secrets he’d shared only with Harry. That mattered far more than the potion that had accidentally poisoned him.

His upper curled, and Snape sneered, “If only you weren’t so messy, Potter. But no matter, I’ve managed to stop the poison. You’ll make a complete recovery and be back to disrupting my classroom in no time, I’m sure.”

“Professor Snape, there’s something I don’t understand,” Harry said finally. “I stopped using the ink a few days ago, and the illness still got worse.”

“It’s a progressive poison. You touch it once, and it’s in your blood. If untreated, it gains in potency inside the body, and kills.”

“Ah. But… but it’s gone, right? I’m alright?”

Snape nodded curtly. “Those effects have been neutralized, yes.”

When Harry asked nervously what other effects there were, Snape smiled in a disagreeable fashion and didn’t reply.

Harry was released from the hospital wing later that day, with orders to rest and go to class the next day if he was feeling sufficiently stronger. Any relapse of the symptoms and he was required to return to Madam Pomfrey at once.

He let himself into the common room and for a moment, thought it was empty. It wasn’t.

“Harry!” Ginny cried, leaping up from the chair by the fire she’d been curled up in. “Are you alright? Ron said you were sick!”

“I’m fine,” Harry said awkwardly.

She licked her lips nervously. “Uh, Harry, were you sick on Halloween, too? Is that why you… you kissed me like that?”

Harry had the sinking suspicion that Ginny would freak out even worse than she already had if she knew that it hadn’t been him at all on Halloween. He ran a hand through his hair. “Sort of…”

“So you didn’t really want to kiss me?”

“I, uh. That’s not the point.” Curiosity overrode good common sense. “Ginny, to be honest, I don’t even remember what happened that night. Can you— Can you tell me?”

Ginny’s eyes widened a little bit, and she sat heavily back in her chair, tucking her feet underneath her. “I-I guess. Alright.”

Harry sat down beside her. “I don’t remember,” he said again.

She nodded. “Well, I… don’t really… it’s sort of foggy. Apparently the punch was spiked.” She grimaced.

“What do you remember?”

She swallowed hard. “First you kissed me, here,” she pointed to the hollow of her throat.

Harry’s eyes followed her fingers, studying her neck, shifting as a strange sort of intimacy he’d never known before washed over him. It didn’t really have anything to do with Ginny, though it was her face and her neck and, most of all, her lips he was focused on. “Then what?” he asked, his voice thick.

“You… you kissed me. I didn’t know how. But you… taught me how.”

“Do you remember how?”

Her face blushed fiery red. “Yes.”

“Show me… Will you…” he cleared his throat. He didn’t know what he was asking for or why he wanted it, but he wanted to know how Draco had kissed her.

“You want me to kiss you?” she asked breathlessly.

Harry nodded wordlessly and Ginny slid closer, playing with her hair and looking pale. “Just like you kissed me?” Harry nodded again.

Ginny studied his face and Harry studied hers. She didn’t say anything else, just leaned up, her mouth opened the tiniest bit, and pressed her lips to his. Her entire body was trembling, and Harry growled softly in annoyance. He was quite sure Draco hadn’t been shaking when he’d kissed her.

It didn’t taste right either, and at first, Harry was completely put off. He hadn’t closed his eyes, and he watched her pale, freckled face while she kissed him, firelight flickering in the red highlights in her hair. She gained a bit of confidence and started kissing him the way Harry was sure Draco had kissed her.

It wasn’t right, it wasn’t worth it. She tasted like peaches, and Harry hated peaches. He pulled away and ran a hand through his hair.

Ginny was frowning. “That wasn’t… That was…strange.” She was still shaking, and Harry scowled. Draco would never tremble over a kiss.

“I-I’ve got to go,” he said suddenly, standing up. Ginny watched him, still looking confused.

“Harry, what—”

“Sorry, I’m just… so tired. I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? I’ve got to rest Pomfrey said I should—”

She leapt up. “Of course, I didn’t mean to… to keep you down here. Go on. I’ll see you at breakfast, if you’re feeling better.”

He nodded distractedly and hurried from the room.

***

“Feeling better, Harry?” Hermione asked first thing the next morning when Harry stumbled into the common room, still half asleep.

“Yes,” he replied. “A little tired, but fine.”

She smiled, relieved. “Oh, good, we were so worried. No one would tell us what was wrong, and after the spell I did, we thought Voldemort--”

“It was… It was something from Potions class,” Harry said quickly, shifting nervously. She’d kill Draco if she knew what had really happened. “I was clumsy and got it all over my hands.”

She frowned. “But Harry, what—”

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Harry interrupted, smiling to take the sting out of his words. “I don’t want to remember. It was… it was horrible.”

Patting his shoulder, she said soothingly, “Of course, Harry. I’m just glad you’re alright.” She let the topic drop, though she still looked suspicious.

They went to the Great Hall together, eating breakfast, though Ginny was jumpy and unusually silent.

They were making their way to class after breakfast when Pansy pushed her way through the crowds. “Ron!” she called, and Ron stopped, grinning widely at her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as people all around pressed by, hurrying to class. When Pansy tackled Ron, it unbalanced Harry, who’d been standing too close, and knocked him into Ginny.

“Are you alright?” he asked breathlessly, grabbing her wrist to steady her. She grabbed his hand for balance, and before Harry could pull away, someone spoke from behind him.

“Potter.” The voice was quiet, he was surprised he even heard it over the noise, but he heard it just the same, and spun around, Ginny spinning with him. It was Draco, and his eyes lingered on Harry’s face before slipping down to his hand, held tightly by Ginny, and then up to Ginny’s face. His smile was sharp, sarcastic. “Cute.”

“Draco,” Harry said quietly, nervously. He tried to drop Ginny’s hand but she was clinging in terror.

“Leave us alone, Malfoy,” she cried shrilly.

Pansy and Ron were still kissing, and Harry couldn’t escape without leaving Ginny there to face Draco alone, however much he wanted to escape Draco’s cold gray eyes. “What, are you two ‘going steady’ now?” Draco drawled disdainfully.

Harry opened his mouth to deny it, but Ginny spoke before he could. “It’s none of your business!”

Draco laughed. “Oh, don’t kid yourself into thinking I care, Weasley. I don’t know what shocks me more, that Potter’s lowered his standards enough to be with someone like you, or that someone as frigid as you even lets him hold your hand.”

Harry nearly laughed, which would have been disastrous. Instead, he swallowed the urge, because Ginny looked like she was going to cry. He said quietly, “That’s not necessary, Malfoy.”

This time, when Draco’s eyes met his, they weren’t cold. They were burning with fury. “Oh, I find it very necessary,” he snapped, pushing past.

Harry vaguely heard Pansy say breathlessly, “Meet me for lunch,” before she hurried to follow Draco to Potions.

“I don’t like him,” Ginny snarled. She was still holding Harry’s hand, and Harry didn’t reply. He let go of her hand and she shot him a hurt glare.

***

He didn’t know why he was so furious.

Who was he kidding? Of course he knew why he was furious. But Draco didn’t want to dwell on it. It was stupid. It was a waste of time. It was wrong.

He threw another stone onto the freshly frozen surface of the lake, and it tore a chunk of ice off that glittered like glass in the sunlight. He smiled grimly in a satisfied sort of way and then dug in the snow for another rock.

He’d skipped his first class. He just didn’t want to go. He was so angry. Snape would just have to deal with it. It wasn’t like Draco needed to go to class. He knew everything he needed to know… well, except that Gobbler’s Ink was poisonous. But he knew that now.

Another stone ricocheted off the lake, the cracking sound splitting the air.

He was still throwing stones a while later when there were footsteps behind him. He knew who it was; he didn’t have to turn.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” he said quietly. “You’re still weak.”

Harry snorted but didn’t reply at first. When he did speak, it had nothing to do with his illness. “You weren’t in Potions.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“I thought maybe you’d be by our tree.”

Draco finally glanced over his shoulder, flicking his blond hair out of his eyes and smiling a little. “Why’d you think that?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. But I heard the rocks hitting the ice.” Draco didn’t reply. “It’s strange,” Harry said to break the silence. “I can’t remember the lake ever having frozen before.”

“It freezes every winter,” Draco said. “The squid breaks up the ice every night, just before dawn. We can hear it from the Slytherin dungeon. Cracks like bones.”

Silence. Harry sighed. “Draco.”

“What?” Draco snapped.

“What’s wrong? I don’t understand.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Are you… are you jealous?”

Draco’s eyes widened and he laughed scornfully. It came out sounding brittle. “Of what?”

“I…don’t know. But in the hall today, she just grabbed my hand. I’d bumped into her, that’s all. We aren’t…together or anything.” Harry replied with a shrug. He had brushed the snow off a log and sat down heavily on it. “And you did snog her. Maybe you fancy her, how am I supposed to know?”

For one, wild second, Draco feared he was going to cry. Not because he was sad or anything of the sort. Because Harry had it so backwards, so morbidly wrong, that it was hilarious. The very idea that he could ever fancy Ginny Weasley…

He laughed instead, hysterically.

“What?”

After he’d calmed down a little, Draco was able to say, “Let’s just… forget it, alright?” Then he glanced at Harry again, who was looking exasperated, confused, and a little amused, and he started laughing all over again.

“Alright,” Harry agreed, though Draco was laughing too hard to hear. Harry didn’t even know what it was supposed to be that they were forgetting. He half feared that he’d already forgotten it. Or that maybe… maybe it was something from one of his feverish dreams. “Will you still help me with Potions?” Harry asked after a pause.

Draco glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes. “Nothing better to do,” he said with a lopsided, very amused smile.

***

They continued working together, and Harry began to rely more and more on those hours as a means of escape. After all, since that morning after breakfast, Ginny seemed to have taken his rejection of her to heart, and she insisted on watching him with wide, teary eyes. It was maddening. Ron, too, seemed to only ever look at him with reproach in his eyes.

It was mid November and winter had taken a firm grasp on Hogwarts, capturing the grounds in a frigid cap of ice and snow that would last until spring. That meant that there were less places for Harry to hide. He couldn’t spend hours alone outside in the freezing cold, and someone always managed to find him inside the castle. More and more, he found himself alone in the tower, working on the Potions essay until all hours of the night. Draco learned that whenever he wanted to find Harry, he needed only to search in the South Tower and he was virtually assured of finding him.

He’d spend hours up there with Harry as well, explaining things Harry didn’t understand, teaching him whatever he felt necessary to mention in the essay.

On the night before the essay was due, Draco went up to the tower, expecting to find Harry writing frantically. At first, when he stepped into the tower room, he thought it was empty. His Potions notebook, which Harry had borrowed, lay open on the floor however, pages ruffling in the freezing breeze that blew through the open window.

“Harry?” Draco called, approaching the window. He stuck his head out cautiously, looking first down at the ground, half afraid Harry had jumped. He hadn’t, and Draco was about to turn back when Harry called his name from up above. Draco looked up. “You’re on the roof!” he cried.

Harry grinned. “I know. It’s lovely up here.”

“Shouldn’t you be working?”

“I’ve gone over everything twice, there’s nothing more to write. I can’t possibly cram any more into my essay than I have already.”

“So you climbed onto the tower roof.”

“Yes. It’s lovely up here,” Harry repeated. “Come up.”

“Oh no. I don’t do roofs. Heights. No.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Draco Malfoy, afraid of heights? You’re joking. You’re a Seeker, Draco. You fly on a broomstick.”

“Exactly, I can control that. I can’t control roofs!” Draco felt slightly nauseous just standing at the window. “I think it’s a Slytherin thing, really. That’s why our dorms are in the dungeons.”

Harry laughed and extended his hand towards Draco. “It’ll be fine, I won’t let you fall. C’mon. Climb onto the sill, grab my hand, and I’ll pull you up. If Ron and Pansy can do it, you can. She’s a Slytherin too, after all.”

“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it,” Draco snapped. “I said I wouldn’t.” Despite his words, however, and ignoring his shaking hands and better judgment, he slid onto the windowsill until his feet were dangling far above the ground.

Not looking down, he reached up and grabbed Harry’s hands. “Don’t worry,” Harry said lazily, snickering. “If you slip, I’ll catch you with a levitation spell before you hit the ground.”

“If I slip?” Draco cried, but half a second later, Harry yanked on his hands and jerked him up onto the roof until he was sitting on the cold, rough surface right beside Harry.

Draco was breathing heavily and Harry smiled at him. “Not so hard, see? And it’s lovely, I told you.”

They could see far in all directions, the silver moonlight reflecting off the icy snow until it was lost in the darkness of the forest, and everything was very still, hushed. “It is,” Draco agreed grudgingly.

“This is how Pansy and Ron escaped the tower,” Harry told him. “They lowered themselves down to that wall there and walked across it to the window we saw them come through.”

There was silence for a while, as Draco looked around, feeling strangely calmer now, even if he was so high up. He was beside Harry, however, and somehow, that made him feel…safe. As if Harry really would have time to catch him before he fell.

Harry was inspecting Draco’s face in the moonlight, the silver lights making his hair even paler, his face smoother, younger. “Have you ever thought about how strange this all is?” he asked finally.

Draco smirked. “All the time. It’s wrong.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Harry asked quietly, fiddling with the sleeve of his robes. He was shivering.

Draco looked at him and shrugged. It was silent for a while, and Harry smiled self-consciously and shrugged, resting his head on his knees, which were pulled up to his chest. His breath was fogging up his glasses and he was shivering with cold, but for the life of him, he couldn’t think of a single place he’d rather be.

“You’re staying over the Christmas holidays, aren’t you?” Harry asked suddenly.

Draco glanced at him. “Yeah. Why?”

“I was suddenly worried I’d have to sit up here by myself over the holidays.” Harry smiled.

“You won’t. I’m the only Slytherin staying.”

He sounded quiet, and Harry turned to look at him thoughtfully, remembering that first night, seeing Draco drunk in the forest. “Draco… why aren’t you going home?”

Draco tilted his head and remained silent, staring at the snowy ground, and Harry thought he wasn’t going to answer. He was surprised when Draco said abruptly, “My mother died, Harry, did you know? Last summer.”

“I…I’m sorry.” Harry didn’t know what to say.

Draco smiled, though it was a grim, nasty looking smile. “Father doesn’t want me home because I nearly cried when she died. It’s weakness. He said… that if I hadn’t been so weak, my mother never would have died at all.”

“He blamed you?” Harry whispered. “It couldn’t have been you’re fault.”

“It was, indirectly, I guess.” Draco glanced at Harry sideways, and then focused his eyes on the ground. He was wondering whether or not he had the courage to tell Harry the truth, and was faintly surprised when he found that he did. “The most important thing to a Malfoy, besides money, is an heir, and I was supposed to be my father’s. I was never good enough. Oh, I wasn’t abused or anything, and I was his son, he was just never proud of me. I was a weak boy, born too early. My mother wasn’t made for having children, I was born too early, weak lungs, all of that. Father wasn’t impressed and he’d been trying to get a real heir ever since. He almost succeeded, the baby should have been born over the summer. She died in childbirth.” His voice remained toneless while he spoke, though his hand shook the tiniest bit.

Harry was quiet for a long moment, and then he took a deep breath. “And your father blames you.”

“If I was stronger, they’d never have tried having another.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“I know. He doesn’t feel the same. I tried, I mean, when I was a child, I was always smaller, but I was strong. Tried to do everything the way he wanted. Mother was proud of me. I wouldn’t have —” His voice nearly cracked and Draco grew furious. “I wouldn’t ever have hurt her.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Draco shrugged. “She’s dead, the baby died, and Father doesn’t want me home. It doesn’t matter, Potter.”

Harry studied his face for a moment in silence and then nodded, turning back to stare up at the moon. “What was it like?” he asked quietly a short while later. “Having a mother, I mean.”

Draco smiled a little crookedly, sadly. “She never minded when I was sick as a child. She always brought me food and petted my hair and read me stories until I was better.”

“I bet my mum would have been like that.”

They were quiet for a long time, shivering together in the cold and staring thoughtfully out at the snow-covered grounds. The silence between them wasn’t awkward; not a word had been spoken, but a thousand things had been said. Nothing had to be put into words because they both understood what the other kept silent.

***

Two days later, as they waited for Potions class to begin, Hermione was nervously biting her nails and Ron was paler than usual, casting Harry pitying glances.

“He probably marked it massively hard.”

“I’m not worried, Ron,” Harry said easily.

“He shouldn’t have made you do it,” Hermione growled. “You’d just been sick.”

“Hermione, honestly, it’ll be fine.”

Snape swept into the room with a fierce scowl. He stalked to the front of the room, spun on his heel, slammed Harry’s essay down on his own desk, and snarled, “Which of you Gryffindors helped him?” His eyes were trained on Hermione, who had gone horribly pale.

“None of them, sir. Why, did I do well?”

Draco, sitting in the front row, smirked over his shoulder and Harry smiled. “He’s telling the truth, sir,” Draco said suddenly, and Snape, for the first time ever, looked like he wanted to murder his favourite student.

“And how, Malfoy, would you know?” he asked silkily instead.

Malfoy shrugged. “I saw him at it, sir. Researching and such, by himself. Trust me, if he’d have let those filthy Gryffindors help him even once, I’d tell you. I’d like nothing better than to have the prat kicked out of school, as you well know. However,” he scowled in disgust, “he didn’t do anything wrong. Did he do well?” There was a hint of anxiety in the last question that anyone listening would have taken for hope that Harry had failed. Harry, however, knew better.

“What’s he doing, sticking up for you?” Hermione hissed. Harry didn’t reply.

Snape slammed the exam on Harry’s table and walked away without another word. “A ‘B’?” Harry said out loud, surprise in his tone.

“Oh, don’t worry, Harry!” Hermione said soothingly. “A B’s not so bad.”

“It’s bloody brilliant!” Harry, who had only been aiming to pass, cried, stealing Ron’s favourite phrase. Ron was grinning broadly.

“It is,” he agreed, and Snape tossed a malevolent look over his shoulder. Draco was staring down at his desk in an attempt to hide his smile, lest anyone think he was glad Harry had passed. He was glad, but that was hardly the point.

***

That night, Harry fed Hedwig an owl treat and tied the letter to Sirius he’d written earlier to her leg, watching her fly away into the night. Then, aching with exhaustion, he curled up under the covers, asleep nearly instantly.

He dreamed of gauzy shadow fingers with claws brushing over his entire body, the sharp scratching of the nails contrasting with the wispy breath of shadow against his skin and eyes. He began to scratch his arms in his sleep, trying to keep the cold, sharp shadows away from his skin.

He awoke so suddenly that at first, Harry thought it must have been his scar hurting that had woken him. He clapped one hand to his forehead, but there was no pain, and he squinted into the darkness.

Someone was standing over him.

Harry sat up so quickly that they nearly bumped heads, simultaneously reaching for his glasses and his wand. Before he could reach his glasses, they were swept from the table and he nearly panicked. He couldn’t curse an enemy he couldn’t see, after all.

Before he could scream, his glasses were suddenly jammed rather roughly, crookedly, onto his face and then, a good deal more gently, pushed up the bridge of his nose.

He blinked up into the darkness, struggling to see who it was.

It was Draco, and he was grinning like a madman.

“What are you doing in here?” Harry yelped. Dean rolled over and started mumbling in his sleep.

“Shh,” Draco hissed. “Come here, I want to show you something.”

He grabbed Harry’s hand and tugged forcefully, the natural motion questioned by neither as Harry let himself be pulled out of bed. “Show me what?” he mumbled sleepily, even as he stumbled, barefoot, out of the room and down the stone stairs.

Draco didn’t reply. The window he’d climbed in was still open, and huge, wet snowflakes were blowing in, swirling in the cold wind.

“You climbed the wall,” Harry said dumbly, staring at the snow quickly piling up on the floor.

He grinned. “You told me how. You didn’t think I wouldn’t remember how Pansy and Weasley escaped the tower, did you? C’mon.”

Through the window, across the wall, and up the other tower they went, Harry’s bare feet slipping on the snowy stone, though he didn’t notice. He was still half asleep, wearing his pajamas, and Draco was holding his hand. For some reason, the rest didn’t seem to matter.

Draco pulled him up onto the tower and them spun him around so that he was standing on the edge, facing outwards. “Look,” he breathed, the word misting from his lips.

Huge, lacy flakes of snow were swirling madly from the clouds, enclosing them in another world of white lace and cold wind. The flakes melted the instant they hit Harry’s face.

“What?” he asked, distractedly. He was staring down at where Draco’s hand was still clasping his.

“It’s snowing,” Draco said. He had the look of an excited little boy, his face was glowing, and Harry realized he’d never seen such a look of pure excitement, not hidden by a casual sneer or a sarcastic smirk on Draco’s face. He turned back to look at the snow, determined, this time, to see it as Draco did.

“Alright,” he said finally, as Draco’s fingers shifted around his hand. He was hoping that Draco wouldn’t realize he was holding it and that he wouldn’t let go, and spoke only to distract him.

“Alright, what?” Draco asked.

“It’s snowing.”

Draco looked at him out of the corner of his eyes and burst out laughing. It rang sharply in the air and he dimly thought that he’d laughed more in the last few days with Harry than in all the rest of his life.

Harry rolled his eyes, watching Draco’s face. He was still feeling rather groggy and snow had melted on his glasses, giving everything a hazy, dreamlike look. Rather like those dreams of he and Draco from when he’d been ill. Of him kissing Draco. Which certainly couldn’t have been real.

Draco tilted his head back, staring up at the snow for a moment, and then back at Harry. “My mother had this snow globe,” he said finally. “Father gave it to her when they were dating, when they both went to this school. He’d bought it in Hogsmeade, it was just a cheap little thing, which is why I was so surprised, to find it in a box one summer when I was eight or so. It was Hogwarts, and the snow inside was enchanted to swirl like this forever and never stop. I don’t know what happened to it, but it was just like this.”

“Somehow, I can’t see Lucius buying his date anything cheap,” Harry commented.

Draco smiled. “I know. And I can’t see my mother keeping anything cheap. It was strange.”

“You woke me up to bring me out here to watch it snow because your father bought your mother a cheap gift.”

“Mmm. Yes. And… I was lonely.” He shrugged, looking away. “I was just up here thinking.” He suddenly noticed Harry’s feet, slowly turning blue in the snow. “Shit, Harry! You didn’t grab any shoes!”

“You didn’t give me time!” Harry cried. He watched a little nervously as Draco lifted his feet, one by one, and conjured up shoes for them, shoes that seemed enchanted to keep his feet warm. He then conjured up a huge fleece blanket and wrapped it around Harry’s shoulders. Shivering as he snuggled into it, Harry smiled gratefully.

“It is pretty,” he said, glancing around again. “The snow, I mean.”

Draco smiled. “Mmm hmm.”

“I’m glad you woke me up.”

It was quite for a while, the soft sort of quiet that isn’t awkward and doesn’t need to be filled. Harry, warm under the blanket Draco had made him, was lost in thought for a few moments. Finally, he asked, “When you’re choosing someone to spend the rest of your life with, do you think you ought to pick someone just like you? Or…”

“Or what?”

“Someone who completes you.”

Draco was quiet for a short while, and then he said, “It depends on what you want. If you want things to be calm and orderly and for everything to be perfect and neat, pick someone just like you, because their weaknesses will be yours, your strengths will be theirs, and there will be no struggle for dominance or superiority because everything will be equal.”

Harry scowled. “What if I don’t want that? It sounds rather stagnant.”

“What do you want to do then?”

Maybe it was the snow, giving things a fantasy-like glow. Maybe it was the droplets on his glasses making things seem like a dream. Whatever it was, it caused Harry’s eyes to narrow the tiniest bit as he studied Draco in the darkness. Snowflakes were clinging to Draco’s eyelashes, and Harry watched with fascination when Draco blinked and they spilled off, disappearing in an instant when they touched his face.

Unnerved by his stare, Draco turned away, looking straight ahead, and he opened his mouth to say something, anything.

Harry didn’t give him the chance. He reached up, his fingers touching Draco’s jaw, applying the slightest pressure, and that’s all it took. Draco turned his face back, eyes widening a fraction with something that looked a little like fear (Draco Malfoy, afraid of Harry Potter? Absurd.). Harry studied his face for an endless second before closing his eyes and kissing him very gently. It seemed the thing to do, because he was cold and Draco looked so warm… and because Draco surely, surely couldn’t kiss as perfectly in real life as he had in those feverish dreams in the forest.

Draco was holding very still, almost as if he were afraid that if he moved, he’d scare Harry away. His chest shuddered as he let out a breath he’d been holding so long that it had made him dizzy, and the breath misted between them. Harry smiled, a quick, lopsided smile that Draco felt against his lips, and then pressed closer.

It was very gentle, more of an exploration, an experiment, than a kiss, just lips against lips and the touch of fingertips along cheekbones and necks and throats. Very fragile, it was given an otherworldly cast in the swirling, softly falling snow.

Draco’s eyes widened and then closed at the first brush of Harry’s tongue against his lower lip, and he finally moved, responding to something he had at first not known how to respond to. He opened his mouth and Harry pressed even closer, eyes closed now, breathing faster, almost nervous.

It wasn’t a long kiss, just a bare taste, and then Harry was pulling away, the tip of his tongue brushing his own lips in a subconscious effort to prolong it.

Draco swallowed. “I thought you didn’t remember,” he said huskily.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I thought it was a dream.”

A quick smile twisted Draco’s lips and disappeared just as fast, and then there was silence as they both struggled to think things through as quickly as they could. Harry’s heart was pounding and he could taste Draco in his mouth and the taste was making it hard to think, hard to breathe. All he knew was that he wanted to taste it again, and taste more, and yet he knew if he did, he’d shatter because he’d never tasted anything that made him want to fall apart as that did. Indescribable.

He found himself staring hungrily at Draco’s lips and forced himself to look away. There were…repercussions to think of… and he wasn’t sure what he was doing.

But he knew he wanted to do it.

“You asked me what I wanted to do,” he said at length.

Draco watched him in silence, warily.

“I don’t know,” Harry said finally, “but I know I want to do it with you.”

“Harry.”

“What?”

Draco tilted his head thoughtfully, studying Harry in the darkness. “I don’t think you understand what this means.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Then who cares?”

“Harry.”

“Fuck, Draco, shut up, who cares, have you ever done anything that made no sense only because you wanted to and it felt good?”

Draco blinked, surprised. “Harry, I think that’s my line. I’m the wild and unpredictable Slytherin, remember?”

“Well then bloody well start acting the part.” He sounded like a petulant little boy but Harry didn’t care. He was feeling rather rejected and hated the feeling. “Not everything ends the way you think it should.”

Before Draco could reply, Harry pushed himself a little, sliding on the icy roof and slipping over the edge. He whispered a charm to thicken the air just as he slipped off the tower, and by the time he neared the ground, it had come into effect and it was just like landing on a pile of pillows. He lowered himself carefully to the ground, falling backwards into the snow. It had been an easy way to removing himself from the situation, and that had been the point, after all. It had been fun as well, falling through the snow like a falling star.

“Harry!” Draco shrieked, suddenly peering over the edge of the tower. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you alright? Shit!”

Harry sat up, laughing. “Did you think that was a suicide attempted? Honestly, Draco, being rejected by you would hardly drive me to that!”

Draco sounded exasperated. “I didn’t reject you, Harry, I just…” He dragged one hand through his hair. “How come you’re not splattered all over the ground?”

“I caught myself with a spell. I hardened the air until it was thick enough to slow my fall before I hit the ground.”

Draco looked intrigued. “And it was fun? Falling that way?”

“Oh, yes. Almost the way a falling star would feel, I’d imagine.”

“Falling stars don’t feel, Potter,” Draco said distractedly. Harry suddenly remembered he had a fear of heights.

“I’ll catch you,” he called softly. “I promise.”

Draco slipped, or maybe he jumped. He could never quite remember. All he knew was that one moment he was sitting high above, barely able to see Harry far below, and the next moment he was falling, spinning, like a top or even a falling star.

Harry did catch him before he hit the ground, the air hardening and causing him to bounce a little, coming to rest four feet or so above the ground, right above Harry, who stared up at him, startled, for a few seconds. Their breath mixed in the air between them. “Should have warned me you were going to jump,” Harry whispered. “I nearly didn’t have time to catch you.”

Draco smiled. “You wouldn’t have let me fall.”

Harry lowered him to the snow and Draco lay beside him, and for a long while, neither spoke. The snow fell all around and their breath misted in the air.

A snowball came out of nowhere and smacked Harry in the side of the face. By the time his outraged squeal had died, Draco was already up and running away, laughing.

Mumbling wrathfully to himself, Harry scooped up some snow in his frozen fingers and took off after Draco using a quick spell to give the snowball both speed and accuracy. It hit Draco in the back of the head, abruptly cutting off his laughter, and the war had begun in earnest.

It was impossible to tell who was winning, only moments later as they chased each other across the grounds throwing slushy snowballs. Both of them were soaking wet, their hair streaming, their faces flushed as they laughed breathlessly. Harry hardly noticed the cold, though he wore only his pajamas, Draco’s blanket left far above, on the roof.

Draco had just hit Harry in the back with a huge snowball, causing him to fall on his face in the snow, and Harry scooped up as much snow as he could carry, packing it into a huge ball. He got up and growled softly under his breath, searching for Draco. He found him and took off after him, gaining only because his legs were longer and Draco didn’t seem to be trying all that hard to get away. Harry didn’t want to use magic this time. Revenge was sweeter if it was unaided by magic.

He was about to slam the snow down on Draco’s head when Draco spun suddenly, grabbing his wrists and trying to force him to drop the snow. Harry fought, kicking Draco’s shins, laughing as he tried to twist away, and moments later, he finally stopped struggling, panting wildly and caught securely in a headlock, his back pressed against Draco’s chest and one of Draco’s arms around his neck.

“Fine,” he gasped. “You win.”

“Drop it,” Draco ordered, flipping wet hair out of his face.

Harry’s fingers twitched as he nearly did as commanded and then, at the last second, he swung the snowball upwards and over his head, smashing it down on Draco’s. Cursing in outrage as snow slid down his shirt, Draco squeezed his eyes shut and flinched, burying his head in Harry’s shoulder as he waited for the burning cold to subside. When it had, he growled, “Oh, you’ll pay for that one, Potter.”

Harry turned his head, and Draco’s was still resting on his shoulder, so his lips nearly brushed Draco’s cheek. “I will, will I?” he said teasingly. Draco’s arm was still wrapped around his neck, one hand tightly wrapped around Harry’s left arm. Snow was running down Draco’s face, dripping onto Harry’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Draco replied in a thick voice, shifting suddenly though he made no move to pull away. His eyes flickered up to Harry’s eyes and then down to his lips, so close to his own. There was a heartbeat’s hesitation and then it was gone and Draco slammed his lips against Harry’s. The angle was awkward, Harry’s neck straining as he turned, his back still pressed against Draco’s chest, but still that made it somehow more rough, wild, and erotic. It wasn’t an exploration, it was an act of possession, as Draco forced Harry’s mouth open and ran his tongue inside, lapping up the melted snow that had gathered on his lower lip. His hands ran through Harry’s hair, down his back, onto his shoulders, and when the awkward angle grew too much and he wanted to be closer, he dug his fingers into Harry’s shoulders and jerked him roughly around.

Harry really didn’t mind. It was a sort of battle for dominance after that, just like every thing between them had ever been. This was a war like everything else was for them, a war fought with teeth and tongue and hands pawing and ripping at clothing.

Harry panted as Draco broke the kiss and bent lower to bite Harry’s neck, hard enough to bruise.

“Mmm,” Harry mumbled distractedly, shivering with cold even as a feeling not unlike the delirious fever of before ran hotly through his veins. “Cold.”

Draco glanced up from the mark he’d been leaving on the side of Harry’s neck. His eyes were cloudy. “What?”

“It’s cold.”

Draco glanced around, his eyes narrowing. “Oh. It’s snowing.” He sounded vaguely surprised, as if he’d forgotten.

Harry smiled, rolling his eyes and shivering. “Yeah.”

Stepping away shakily, Draco said in a lost sort of voice, “Harry. I…oh for fuck’s sake, do up your pajamas, you’ll get sick again.” He sounded angry now, and Harry laughed, even as his fingers hurriedly did the buttons back up. One of them was missing.

Draco looked mussed, his face flushed with what could have been cold, had Harry not known better.

“What were you…” Harry licked his lips. “What were you going to do?”

Draco looked surprised. “Just now?”

“Yeah.”

He shifted a little. “Knowing me, I was going to fuck you till you forgot your own name and had to scream mine instead.” He smirked. “At least, that’s the way it always seems with anyone else I do it with.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “You’ve done…things like this before.”

“Not exactly like…this…”

“What’s different, then?”

“The fact that it’s snowing. The fact that I didn’t go through with it.” He smirked now, rolling his eyes. “And the fact that you’re not female.”

“You still could.”

“What?”

“Go through with it. If you…wanted.” Harry looked away.

“Smashing idea, Harry, let’s have wild passionate sex in the snow, catch our deaths of a cold, and die of hypothermia. I think this whole proving fate wrong thing of yours is going a little far.”

“What if I’m trying to prove fate’s right this time?”

There was silence for a long time, and Draco was frantically trying to think of an excuse, any excuse, because he was terrified of the solemn trust in Harry’s eyes. You shouldn’t trust me, he wanted to scream. How could Harry trust him when he couldn’t even trust himself? “It’s cold,” he whispered weakly.

Harry pulled out his wand and whispered a short spell. The air around them sparkled with heat that only they could feel and did not affect the snow at all. “It’s not,” Harry countered softly.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed, because he generally took what he wanted without any rationalization at all, and it was too much to attempt to go against his nature now.

Harry realized he’d won and smiled slowly. “Brilliant,” he said with quiet triumph, stepping closer. “Kiss me again then.”

Draco couldn’t help but comply, kiss him again, bruising his lips with the force of it. He wasted no time this time, and soon, Harry’s pajama top was lying forgotten in the snow, and Draco was dragging his nails up Harry’s back.

Harry moaned a little, shivering, and he let his legs give out beneath him, tangling his hands in Draco’s hair and pulling him down as well. Kneeling together, wrapped in each other, Harry asked breathlessly, as Draco bit his shoulder, “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“I’m going to make you scream,” was Draco’s distracted response, as he pushed Harry backwards.

“No, I mean…” Harry’s words were cut off with a breathless moan as he laid back in the snow, which stung, icy and chilling all at once against his naked back but the cold was forgotten mere seconds later when Draco straddled his waist, white hot heat searing through him.

“Shut up,” Draco mumbled, dragging his nails down Harry’s chest. Harry shivered.

“You’ve never done this before,” Harry gasped, shifting restlessly as Draco bent low, kissing him again.

Harry had nearly forgotten his own words when Draco pulled away and said, “I don’t care. I just want to be all over you. Inside of you. I don’t care. I want to make you scream.”

“It’s always been like that,” Harry said, voice distant as he trailed his fingertips over Draco’s chest, tracing the ridges and planes there. “Since the beginning, you’ve been trying to be all over me and inside me and make me scream…” He trailed off, sucking in a startled breath as Draco moved lower, his mouth following the path his nails had marked on Harry’s chest. “Only it was different before,” he mumbled, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back.

Draco glanced up at him, silver-blonde hair falling in his eyes. He smiled deviously and said, “Thought I told you to shut up, Potter.”

Harry opened his eyes and studied Draco, sprawled all over him. He smirked and, not thinking very clearly, brushed the hair out of Draco’s face. “We were lovers before we ever knew it.”

Draco didn’t reply and it was the last time for a long while that Harry made a sound. When he finally did, it was an incoherent moan that Draco caught in his mouth, and still later, a husky cry that was enough of a scream to satisfy Draco, who didn’t bother to silence that. The sound echoed and died and the only sound for a long, long while was breathless panting and the whisper of falling snow.

8 

I don't want you to give it all up
and leave your own life collecting dust
and I don't want you to feel sorry for me
you never gave us a chance to be.
And I don't need you to be by my side
and tell me that everything’s all right
I just wanted you to tell me the truth
You know I'd do that for you
So why are you running away?
Why are you running away?
--Running Away, Hoobastank

Somehow, they’d ended up back in the tower, though Harry would never remember quite how it happened. Everything seemed to have melted into a delicious blur and all that mattered was that he was lying on the dusty floor of the abandoned tower and Draco was tangled around him, on top of him. His head was resting on Harry’s chest, his eyes were closed, and he was breathing softly through his nose. Still half asleep and afraid it had all been a strange and vivid dream, Harry reached out and brushed his fingers through Draco’s hair.

At the first shifting of muscles beneath him, Draco woke. It wasn’t slow or gentle, his eyes just flew open suddenly and then flinched shut at the light. Harry held his breath, terrified that Draco would regret it, would sneer at it or laugh or somehow degrade what Harry himself wasn’t quite sure what to make of.

Early morning sunlight was filtering through the window, painting golden lights all over Draco’s body even as he turned his face against Harry’s chest, the light stinging his eyes. “What are you doing?” Draco asked huskily, voice thick from sleep.

Harry was still playing with his hair, and he let his hand drop. “Nothing.”

Stretching like a cat, Draco finally opened his eyes, propping himself up on his elbows and smiling sleepily. “Oh.” He tilted his head to the side and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Alright. I’m hungry.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Hungry? Hungry? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

A faintly amused smile twisted his lips and Draco studied Harry’s face for a few seconds, aware that Harry was pinned beneath him and if he hadn’t been, he probably would have slipped away before Draco had woken up, judging by how nervous he looked.

Rather than waste time with words that wouldn’t have done a thing to reassure him, Draco slammed his lips against Harry’s, so hard that Harry was knocked backwards, head smashing against the hard floor. He moaned at the pain but didn’t push Draco away, only pulled him closer, his nails digging into naked shoulders. It was a rough, dominating kiss, almost as if Draco were branding him, claiming him, and when he pulled away, Harry was shaking.

“Now can I get up?” Draco asked, sounding a little petulant, and Harry laughed so suddenly that he nearly choked on it.

“Not a morning person, are you?” he teased when he’d finally caught his breath. If he’d had any doubts, Draco had just destroyed them.

Draco tossed him a dirty look, sitting up and running a hand through his hair. It was drafty in the tower room and Harry shivered as Draco moved away, leaving a chill. Tossing the blanket he’d conjured up the night before over Harry, Draco got dressed and made his way lazily over to the corner where he and Harry had begun stashing food during their homework sessions. There were three chocolate frogs left, and a single bottle of pumpkin juice, and he brought those back, tossing a frog to Harry.

Harry stared down at the frog in disgust. He was still very sleepy, his muscles aching rather pleasantly, and the very thought of eating chocolate made him nauseous.

“I’m tired,” he said, pulling the blanket up to his chin. Draco watched him in silence, and Harry suddenly realized that he was naked beneath the blanket. He laughed sleepily. “Where the hell are my clothes?”

“Harry,” Draco said abruptly, setting his chocolate aside. “We’ve got to talk. About last night. It shouldn’t have —”

He broke off suddenly, aware that Harry had fallen asleep. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled to himself, though he was smiling a little as he pulled Harry’s glasses off, folded them, and set them nearby.

***

Harry woke up alone, sprawled on the floor of the tower with Draco’s blanket tossed over him and tucked up to his chin, and it took him a long while to remember where he was and what had happened. Then he sat up quickly, sucking in a startled breath.

Draco wasn’t there. He looked around the room frantically, but he was very much alone.

He vaguely remembered waking up earlier, and Draco had been there then, hadn’t he? Harry refused to admit to himself how worried he was about Draco’s absence. Rather than wonder if Draco had left because he regretted it, or it had all been some stupid game and even now the entire Slytherin house was laughing at him, he instead checked his watch.

He was twenty minutes late for potions.

Scowling to himself, Harry briefly considered not going, but going on as though nothing had happened, which apparently Draco had decided to do, seemed to be the best option. Five minutes later, his clothes a little wrinkled and dusty, he took off running down the stairs, summoning his Potions books as he went.

He burst into the Potions dungeon, sweating, panting, and filthy from the tower, his hair standing wildly on end, and the entire class turned to stare, including Draco, who was sitting in his usual seat beside Pansy.

The look of shock on everyone’s face, including Professor Snape, would have been comic, had Harry not been so furious at Draco, who, after an amused smirk, rolled his eyes and shook his head, only confirming Harry’s fears.

“Mister Potter,” Snape said finally. “We were under the impression that you were too ill to attend class today. Malfoy claimed he saw you on your way to the hospital wing.”

Harry’s eyes flew back to Draco, who was carefully not looking at him. “I’m better now, sir,” he lied. Snape smirked, deducted points from Gryffindor, and let him get off relatively unscathed. Harry slid into his seat beside Ron gratefully.

“Where were you?” Ron hissed. “You weren’t in bed this morning!”

Harry turned, opened his mouth to reply, and saw Ron’s eyes skim down to the base of his throat and widen. He went an odd shade of puce and turned away without a word, looking rather traumatized. Before Harry could ask why, Snape continued on with the lesson, and Harry was forced to pretend to pay attention.

Intending to speak with Draco after class, Harry was the first one out of his seat, already heading towards the front where Draco was packing up his things. He never made it, however, because Hermione grabbed him by the back of the robes and hauled him out into the hallway, and into a shadowy alcove.

“Just what is wrong with you, Harry?” she whispered. “Are you ill? When Malfoy told Snape that you were in the hospital wing, I got so scared that the sickness was back!”

“I’m fine,” Harry told her, pulling away. “I just fell asleep in the library and slept late.”

She still looked concerned. “You’re not lying to me, are you, Harry? Because why would Malfoy lie for you?”

“I…I’ve gotta get to class, Hermione,” Harry said quickly, forcing a reassuring smile at her. He hurried away, looking for Draco, but the hall was already empty.

Divination was strange. Ron seemed incapable of making anything other than incoherent squeaking noises, the lesson was boring, and everyone was casting him interested, narrow-eyed looks and then whispering behind their hands. It wasn’t until lunchtime that Harry found out what they were saying.

He and Ron were late for lunch, and when they walked in, the entire Great Hall turned to stare, giggling behind their hands. Harry slipped into a seat beside Hermione and Ron sat on his other side. Ginny wasn’t at the table.

“Where’s Ginny?” Harry asked.

Ron made a choking sound and didn’t reply.

“What?” Harry scowled. “What’s this about, Ron?”

“Harry,” Hermione said worriedly. “You and Ginny didn’t…. Did you?”

“Didn’t what?”

Before she could reply, Draco spoke from behind him. At his voice, Harry’s skin seemed to tighten, his eyes widen, and his breathing grow heavier. “So, Potter, is it true?” he asked, and Harry turned. Draco was smirking, faintly amused, and his eyes were sparkling. When Harry turned to face him, Draco’s eyes ran over his face, lingering on his lips, and his smile twitched a little. Only Harry saw it, and it eased his worry somewhat.

“Is what true?” he asked, aware that Ron was shaking with fury. Harry was too distracted to care.

“C’mon, Potter, surely you’ve heard the rumours.”

“Rumours.” Harry shook his head. “What rumours?”

“Malfoy,” Hermione growled warningly, getting to her feet. Harry was suddenly aware that the entire Hall was watching him again. “Get lost.”

“Make me, Mudblood,” Draco spat.

Hermione lifted her hand to hit him and Harry moved without thinking, grabbing her wrist. Everything seemed to freeze. After all, it was unheard of for Harry to defend Malfoy in any way.

“Unnecessary,” Draco said easily. “Let her hit me.”

Hermione jerked away from Harry, glared at him, and hissed, “Fine then, Harry, answer his bloody question. I’m sure Ron is dying to know the answer. Oh, and Ginny’s up in her room, she claimed she was too sick to go to class. Why would that be, Harry?”

Harry started shaking his head slowly, completely bewildered, and Ron finally spoke. “What did you do to her, Harry? You and she didn’t… didn’t… Mum would kill you!”

Harry’s eyes widened. “You think that Ginny and I… that we….What in the world would give you that idea?”

“Could be,” Draco suggested lazily, “the mark some inconsiderate person left on your neck.”

Harry’s face flamed and he clapped one hand over the bruise at the base of his throat. So that’s what Ron had been gawking at in Potions. “We didn’t….” he said, turning to Ron. “I wasn’t with Ginny last night.”

“Then who were you with?” Ron cried. “At least you could have been a bit more considerate! The whole school’s talking about it, Harry, and you know how Ginny feels about you. She told me about Halloween, Harry, she told me! Were you just playing with her? Is that what all of this is? She’ll probably never stop crying!”

“Ron, just listen to me!” Harry snapped. “It’s not what you think. Maybe we should talk about this later.”

“I want to talk about it now,” Ron said stubbornly. Hermione was just watching in silence, and Draco seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

“Ron,” Hermione said finally. “We’ll talk about it later. It’s not helping, making a big scene like this. And maybe if we stop discussing it now, Malfoy will get bored and leave.” She shot him an angry glare.

“Whatever,” Ron said sullenly, turning back to his lunch.

Hermione sat down next to him, and Harry glanced down at them as they sat together. Somehow, the spot he’d been sitting on had been phased out, and Ron and Hermione were closer, effectively preventing him from joining them. Whether it was intentional or not, Harry still scowled and turned to go, when he realized Draco was still standing behind him.

Suddenly nothing else mattered. His irritation at Hermione, Ron, and Ginny faded and all that mattered was Draco, who leaned forward, his cheek brushing Harry’s. “Wait for me in your classroom after History of Magic. We’ve got to talk.”

Harry shivered at the feel of Draco’s breath on his ear and glanced around quickly, but the Hall had lost interest and gone back to their lunches. He nodded at Draco, swallowing heavily, because the longer Draco stayed near, the tighter Harry’s skin felt, and it felt rather like there were a thousand bees underneath it. A giddy, pleasant reaction that he rather liked.

Draco smiled quickly and walked away, and Harry, determined to ignore Ron and Hermione as effectively as they were him, moved further down the table and sat with Neville.

***

History of Magic was Harry's last class of the day, and he lingered while everyone put their books away, pretending to be doing the same. Hermione and Ron ran out without a backwards glance, and soon everyone, including the professor, followed.

It was very quiet and for a few minutes, Harry was worried that Draco wasn’t going to come. He stacked his books up into a pyramid and paced the room a few times, about to give up when the door opened, Draco slipped in, and slammed it shut. Harry was standing right near the door, and Draco’s sudden entrance startled him. He was even more startled when, with a lopsided grin, Draco grabbed him by the front of his robes, slamming him against the wall, and kissing him wildly. Lips and teeth and tongue, Draco hurriedly kissed him while his hands dug at Harry’s robes.

Breathlessly, Harry said, “I was worried you weren’t going to come.”

“You need to have more faith in me,” Draco said distractedly. “Besides, I wouldn’t miss this. I thought about it all day.”

“I thought we were here to talk,” Harry replied, breath catching on a moan when Draco gave up on his robes and moved lower, to the front of his trousers.

Draco grinned and kissed him again, biting his lower lip gently. “Talk later,” he whispered, and Harry nodded in agreement, tearing at Draco’s clothing.

It was faster and wilder than the night before but somehow seemed to take forever. In their haste, buttons and zippers seemed impossible to work, and far too slow. Finally, after endless seconds of fumbling and swearing, all of their clothes were scattered on the ground. It was rough and fast, and rather than easing the tension they’d both felt all day, it only served to increase it to a dizzying level that made every touch seem to burn in the most exciting fashion, until Harry was sure all Draco had to do was brush the palm of his hand against Harry’s body, anywhere and everywhere, and he’d lose control even more than he ever had. It was achingly painful in the best way imaginable, and Draco seemed to sense it, taking his time now when Harry only wanted him to go faster still.

Draco took him against the wall, both of them silent and panting, restraining moans and screams in case anyone was passing through the halls outside, everything made all the more erotic because it was secret and they could be discovered any second.

Afterwards, holding each other up and struggling to breathe, Harry said shakily, “What did you want to talk about?”

Draco laughed breathlessly. “How we couldn’t do this anymore, actually.”

Harry’s eyes widened the tiniest bit. “You… you regret it?”

“As I just proved by shagging you against the bloody wall,” Draco replied sarcastically. “I just thought it would be too complicated. I mean, Harry, none of this was supposed to happen, none of it. It’s too wild even to understand, really. I’ve hated you for years and then all of this happened and now I don’t even know what’s real.”

Someone walked by outside, laughing loudly, and Harry tensed. After their voice faded, he began getting dressed, frowning thoughtfully as he considered what Draco had said. “I don’t think I ever hated you,” he said finally. “Oh, you certainly drove me mad. You made me want to scream. But I couldn’t ever hate you. Like you said, we’re more alike than I’d like to think, and you were so like me, even if every similarity is only a similarity because it is the exact opposite, which really makes no sense. I"m feeling rather incoherent, sorry. But I could no more hate you than I could myself. Because without you, I never would have been me. Savior of the wizarding world, wonder boy of the school, all that load of rubbish. But you’re the same, aren’t you? Savior of the wizarding world? It’s just a different version of the same. One where wizards rule supreme and all that. It’s like, from the time we were little boys, people have been trying to sculpt us into the very image of what their Cause is supposed to be about. I’m supposed to be kind and brave and protect the innocent and the Muggles, and you’re supposed to be ruthless and cruel and protect the heritage of the old families.”

“I was never a little boy,” Draco said with a sharp smile.

“C’mon, Draco, of course you were. We both were.”

“Well, maybe. Technically. But certainly not emotionally. Malfoys are never little boys, Harry, and if we are, it’s not for nearly as long as it is for everyone else.”

“You were a little boy,” Harry said softly, yet firmly. “I remember. A little boy with huge silver eyes and a pointed face and robes that spilled over his hands in the robe shop. Quivering in excitement about starting at Hogwarts the way all the other little boys were. You may have been a Malfoy, Draco, but you were human first, just like me.”

“Just like you?” Draco replied caustically. “Come on, Potter, when did those Muggles of yours let you be a little boy? In that cupboard under the stairs? Admit it, we’re more alike than you ever thought. Neither one of us was ever a child, and both of us were born into reputations too large for us to carry. Me, the heir of Malfoy, you, the savior of the wizarding world. It would seem we were destined to be opposites, extremes of both ends of some good-vs-evil spectrum, wouldn’t it?”

Harry shrugged. “So what if that’s the way it is? All I know is that you’re the only one in the entire world who actually listens when I talk, and who doesn’t like me because of some scar on my forehead. In fact, you hated me for it. So it’s all in how you look at it, the complications that would arise from… whatever this is. You could look at it as something immensely confusing, full of tangled loyalties and all that. The dark side and the light side, family loyalty vs. personal desires. Or you can look at it as simply something that was Meant To Be. A natural progression. There could have been no other result from the intensity and the tension we’ve been building between us all of these years.”

“Fate’s a lovely thing to believe in, when it suits your purposes, isn’t it, Potter?”

Harry smiled very sweetly. “It’s not fate, it’s nature. Just as natural as the rain that follows a gathering of dark clouds. I happen to like the rain.”

“There are things I’ve got to confess, stupid things that I’ve done,” Draco said quietly. Harry was sitting on the floor, fully dressed, and Draco sat across from him, still doing up his robes.

“Everyone does stupid things, Draco.”

Draco scoffed. “Name one stupid thing you’ve done, Potter.”

Harry thought for a moment and then smiled slowly, deviously. “Well, I replied to your first message in that dratted journal rather than just taking it and running as fast as I could.”

“Cute,” Draco said, rolling his eyes. “But that journal, Harry… There’s something you don’t know.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

Draco took a deep breath. “There’s a second property to Gobbler’s Ink, Harry.”

Harry paused, his eyes narrowing, and then he asked, “What is it?”

“The second property of Gobbler’s Ink is that, when made with the blood of a lover, it acts as sort of a binding spell.” He brushed Harry’s lips with his fingertips. “My blood, Harry. And yours.”

“What— What do you mean?”

Draco sighed, letting his hand drop and turning away. “You said it yourself, Harry. We were lovers before we ever knew it.”

“What does it do?” Harry asked, shaken.

“I… didn’t really know, when I made the ink. After all, never in a thousand years did I think it would work this way. But after you became ill, I researched the second property. It’s a binding spell that… makes it so that… you’re the first thing I think about each morning, and the last thing before I sleep. You’re in my blood and in my head and in my dreams, and I’m sure it’s the same for you. It makes it so that the only thing we can write, in the ink, is the truth. We can’t lie to each other, Harry. If I even tried to lie to you, you’d know in a second that it was a lie. It’s sort of… a love spell.”

Harry’s eyes were wide. “A love spell.”

Draco hurried to reassure him. “It wouldn’t have come into effect if there wasn’t something there in our blood that would cause the second property, rather than the first, to come into effect! So there was something other than hatred in our blood, it only recognized it before we did.”

“But you… don’t know how much of this is real, and how much is a direct result of the ink.”

Draco paused, and then slowly shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I don’t know. That’s why we can’t do this anymore.”

“But it means that… everything we’ve written and said was true? All of it?”

“Yes, bloody all of it!” Draco snapped. “Everything you wrote was true because you were under my spell, and everything I wrote was true. Because I was under yours.”

Harry smiled, very slowly and grudgingly. “Under my spell?” he scoffed. He was trying desperately to think of someway to deny that this could all be a spell. It surely couldn’t be true… this had to be real. It was the most real thing he’d ever felt. “Can the spell be reversed?”

Draco’s eyes flashed with a second of hurt, hurt that Harry was so eager to break the spell and end it, and then it was gone. “I think so.”

Harry nodded slowly. “Would… would it mean we’d lose…this?”

“I don’t know. It depends how much of it is real.”

“A lot of it, I’d say,” Harry said, letting out his breath in a rush. “Because you’ve been under my skin and in my blood for years. I don’t want to lose this, but the very idea that it’s just a spell makes me sick.”

“Alright.” His eyes were dark and as flat as stones.

Harry smiled, swallowing a sudden nervousness in his throat and touching Draco’s cheek with his fingertips. “I do think of you,” he whispered. “The last thing before I sleep and the first thing when I wake up.”

“It’s just the spell. We’ll break it and it’ll go away.”

“We’ll see,” Harry said, not sounding convinced. “How do we break it?”

“The book,” Draco said. “We need to destroy the book.”

Harry glanced out the window. “It’s outside, buried in snow.”

“We’ll have to find it.”

They split up, going to their respective dormitories to get their cloaks and then meeting up in the hollow.

“It should be around here, by the tree,” Harry said. “Unless something took it for a nest or something.”

Draco didn’t reply, only fell to his knees and started digging in the snow with his bare hands, scarcely feeling the cold. Harry joined him, and it was a silent, solemn few minutes before Harry’s numb hands closed on the brittle, frozen book. The ink well was right beside it.

“Don’t touch it,” Draco told him. “It’ll probably still have ink in it and I don’t know how susceptible you are to the poison now.” He brought his foot down hard on the glass well and it shattered. “Let’s go.”

They walked back, side by side and silent again. Harry was more nervous than he wanted to let on, his mind filled with horrible worries of breaking the spell only to dislike Draco all over again and regret everything.

He didn’t want to hate Draco.

What if they forgot everything? He didn’t want to forget. It was something secret, something that made him feel alive for the very first time.

“I’ve got to get a few things from my room,” Draco said quietly. “Potion ingredients. It’s not as simple as tearing the book apart. Wait for me in the tower.”

Harry nodded and turned towards the staircase that would bring him to the tower.

On the upper floor, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were walking down the hall together and he tried to shrink back around the corner, but Hermione saw him.

“Harry! We were looking for you!” she cried.

“Just to accuse me of sleeping with her?” he asked sourly, scowling. “Or sleeping with someone else just because I want to hurt her?”

Ginny’s face flamed and Ron couldn’t look at him. He still looked furious. “She told us that you didn’t,” Hermione told him. “She just wasn’t feeling well this morning.”

Harry glanced at Ron, who still looked furious. Ginny said nervously, “I’m sorry, Harry, I never even thought Ron would assume that.”

“Yeah, well, he did.”

“Who was it, then?” Ron said in a quiet, enraged tone.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry snapped.

“Ron, Harry, please,” Hermione pleaded.

“I don’t understand,” Ginny said, looking worried. “Who was what?”

“Never mind,” Ron snapped, glaring at Harry. “C’mon, Gin.” He grabbed her arm and started tugging her down the hall, and with an apologetic glance, Hermione followed.

“Wait!” Ginny cried, jerking her arm out of her brother’s grasp. “I want to talk to Harry. Alone. I’ll catch up.”

Ron’s scowl grew more furious as Ginny ran back to Harry, but he didn’t stop her. Harry waited, arms crossed over his chest, fighting the urge to sneer at her. He really wasn't in the mood for this.

“Are you alright?” she asked, studying his face. He wondered if she would find anything there to tell her exactly what the problem was.

“Yes.”

“You seem…bothered. It wasn’t me, was it?”

She looked so worried, and Harry sighed. It wasn’t her fault, after all, that she bored him senseless. “It wasn’t you, Gin.”

She smiled and he was suddenly worried that she was going to kiss him or something. She didn’t; maybe she had seen the change on his face. “Alright. I better go.” She dashed off down the hall and Harry shook his head as he felt a headache coming on.

Draco wasn’t there yet when he arrived, and Harry flopped down on the floor, sighing and closing his eyes. Things had gone crazy, stark raving mad. From the night before, when Draco had woken him and forced him out onto the roof of the tower, to that blasted snow fight and, of course…whatever that had been, in the snow. And then Ron’s reaction, and Draco’s revelation about the spell…

The spell was the thing that hurt the most. The very idea that all of this was some by-product of magic made him furious.

By the time Draco got there, Harry had worked himself into a fury. “You know,” he hissed as soon as he saw Draco. “As soon as you get this blasted spell off me, I’ll never think of you again. I’ll forget you exist. I’m sure all the things we’ve done will make me sick.”

Draco studied him in silence and then smiled a little, almost wistfully, putting down the things he’d gotten from his room. “Harry, you forgot,” he chided quietly. “Until we break the spell, you can’t lie to me without me knowing it.”

Harry's eyes narrowed and he took a deep breath, the tiny smile on Draco's lips making his anger soften into something that felt like butterflies against his skin, light and fluffy and sweet. He hated it; it wasn't real. He wanted it to be real.

Draco went about preparing a fine, flammable powder, grinding roots and herbs in silence, while Harry watched.

“Can I help?” he asked.

For the first time in nearly an hour, Draco smiled. “With your skill in Potions? No. But start a fire burning in the centre of the room. Ward it first so the floor doesn’t catch on fire.”

Harry did as commanded, and soon, blazing heat was coming off the fire he’d started.

“I need some of your blood,” Draco said finally, setting the pale green powder aside and picking up a dagger.

“Blood? Why?”

“The spell is made with blood, yours and mine, and it can’t be undone without it. I won’t cut too deeply, it’ll hardly bleed at all.”

Still nervous, Harry held out his arm. Holding his hand gently, Draco drew a light line down the inside of Harry’s wrist, which, no more than a scratch, only drew tiny beads of blood.

“Merlin’s sake, Draco,” Harry snapped, bringing his other hand up and pressing down on Draco’s hand, forcing the dagger in deeper. He hissed at the sting and his blood rushed up, swelling around the dagger and then running down, over his hand.

His hands were trembling when Draco quickly moved a vial to catch some of the blood. “Too deep,” he mumbled. “I didn’t need this much.”

“It’s fine,” Harry growled, jerking his arm away. Draco had brought bandages and Harry picked them up, balling them up and holding them against the wound.

“I’ll magic them better after this spell, any other magic in the room will mess with it,” Draco said, having gotten control of himself. He cut his own wrist, caught the blood in another vial, and then spent another hour mixing precise amounts of other liquids Harry could not identify. The scents of them singed his nostrils and made him feel slightly ill. Adding the blood to the liquid mixture last, Draco then turned to the fire. He was holding a paintbrush in one hand and the crock of blood-coloured liquid in the other. “Gobbler’s Ink originated in a small tribe in Africa,” he said absently. “Though it had a different name then, of course.” He started painting bold strokes on the floor that seemed to soak into it, quickly becoming the dusty colour of dried blood. He continued the design all around the fire until there was just a tiny space left, right in front of Harry, all that kept the blood ring from being finished. “You’ve got to be inside the ring,” Draco told him, and Harry stepped inside.

The heat seared his skin, the fire burning unnaturally hot as the temperature flared briefly while Draco finished the ring. Then, fire flickering over his features, he picked up the powder and the journal, glancing at Harry rather nervously.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly, barely heard over the roaring of the fire. The heat was making Harry feel dizzy, feverish, and images danced through his mind of the day he’d finally fully succumbed to the fever, the first time he had kissed Draco.

“Tell me this is real,” he had begged, lost in fever. This was no different, really.

Swallowing hard, he said, “Until I was eleven years old, everything everyone had ever told me was a lie. I need to know if this is real.”

Draco’s face seemed carved from marble, and he didn’t nod or speak as he tossed the powder, crock and all, into the flames. They flared, turning green and cold. Harry shivered, watching them in fascination, and then Draco threw the journal in.

Consuming the little book with a hiss, the flames writhed over the leather cover, curling the pages and charring them. Harry watched until, with a small flash, the book was gone and the fire flickered and died. Though imprints of the flames still danced in his eyes, the room was suddenly flat and still, blood ring a mere smudge on the floor.

“You alright?” Draco asked in the sudden silence.

Harry swallowed. “Is it done?”

“Yes.”

“The spell is gone?”

Draco searched his eyes and then said quietly, “I hate Herbology. Lucius is my middle name. I think I could love you. Which one was the lie?”

Harry felt like he’d be punched in the stomach, and he flinched. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Then we know it worked, don’t we?” Draco said with sardonic and cynical humor.

***

It was still crimson and gold, not fading the least at the edges, not dying.

Harry lay on his back in his bed, the hangings drawn, twirling the leaf Draco had left in the journal between his fingers. It was still rather early for bed, and most of his house was still down in the common room. He was hoping no one would disturb him, especially Ron, who was still furious by all accounts.

He didn’t have the patience for it. He didn’t seem to have the patience for a lot of things, really, not any more. Just Draco. Which, of course, took a lot of patience.

Harry carefully tucked the leaf back onto his trunk, the stem of it slipping under the hatch and holding it there.

He couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think of anything except the harsh scent of magical flames destroying paper and ink, the look on Draco’s face as green flames danced in his eyes. Harry wouldn’t let himself think of anything else, like the taste of Draco’s mouth or the feel of his tongue in Harry’s own. Or his hands or his teeth or his body, all over Harry’s… the way he stopped breathing when he was inside him, the way his hands would shake… no, Harry wouldn’t think of any of that.

Except he couldn’t seem to help it, and with a frustrated groan, Harry rolled over and buried his face in his pillow. Even just a few quick thoughts about not being able to think about it had succeeded in making his blood seem to burn all over again, his skin tighten in that strangely painful and pleasurable way.

Harry fell asleep, and Draco was, of course, the last thing he thought of before he did.

***

“You smell of astinine,” Snape said suddenly, directly behind Draco, causing him to jump.

“What? Oh. Professor, I didn’t see you there.” Draco swallowed, hoping he wasn’t about to get in trouble for being out of bed after hours.

“Apparently not. And the smell?”

“I was making a potion earlier,” Draco told him, shifting and trying not to feel nervous. He’d never felt nervous in Snape’s presence before.

“Astinine is one of the key ingredients in the making and breaking of all aspects of Gobbler’s Ink. I do hope you haven’t been playing around with that, I daresay Potter wouldn’t survive another run in with it.”

Draco’s nostrils flared and a vague sort of fury burned in him at even that casual mention of Harry’s death. “No harm came of it, I assure you.”

Snape seemed to want to ask any number of questions, most likely regarding Draco’s reasons for the Gobbler’s Ink, and the eventual results. He, after all, knew of all the properties. Instead, he merely said, “And what are you doing out of bed at this late hour?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Draco replied, and it was the perfect truth, except that he hadn’t mentioned the fact that he hadn’t bothered to try.

Snape nodded. “I could get you a sleep potion. Dreamless Sleep.”

Draco jumped, shivering. After all, dreams of Harry were the one thing that would prove without a doubt that it had been real. Without the spell to induce them, there had to be another explanation, and he could only think of one possibility. “No, sir,” he said quickly. “I’m actually feeling a bit tired now.”

Snape studied his face again and than nodded abruptly. “A word of caution, however, Malfoy. It is not wise to get too dependent on something that can’t possibly last. Take it from someone who knows. Those with a death wish are inevitably granted their wish.”

“Are you saying I’ve got a death wish?” Draco asked, confused.

“Do you regularly engage in foolish heroics in which your life is again and again threatened?”

“No.”

“Then no, Malfoy, I’m not.” With an enigmatic smile, Snape turned and walked away.

It was moments later, after he was alone again, that Draco realized Snape had been talking, of course, of Harry. “He hasn’t got a death wish,” Draco grumbled to himself.

He made his way up to his room, crawling into bed and, surprisingly, nearly instantly falling asleep, mumbling one more time, “Death wish,” in a scoffing sort of tone.

He dreamed of Harry.

***

It was over. There was no explanation for it other than that. It had all been the spell. Draco wondered why he wasn’t bawling his eyes out at the news.

It could be, of course, that Malfoys didn’t cry. Probably.

He glanced over at Harry once more, but the other boy seemed immune to his stare. He seemed intent upon staring a hole in Snape’s forehead. He wasn't just avoiding Draco, however, but Weasley and Granger as well.

It had all been the spell, then. Because surely if he still felt anything, anything at all, Harry would have looked at him, spoken to him, sat near him. Because Draco knew that when Harry had come into the room, Draco had been instantly aware of it, had instinctively longed to be closer.

Apparently it wasn’t a returned sentiment, and the whole tragic, unrequited-ness of it was so very cliché that Draco was scoffing at himself, let alone what anyone else would say should they ever hear of the madness. The idea of Draco pining over anyone, especially Harry Potter, was ridiculous.

It was also true.

But of course, Draco didn’t have to admit it to anyone, even himself. Denial, after all, was another one of those things Malfoys were so good at. Something Draco himself had spent six years perfecting.

Potions ended, and Draco left the dungeons, still scowling. Crabbe and Goyle, intimidated by his black temper, had found other companions to walk with, and Pansy was giggling with Weasley, so he was alone as he stalked up the stairs and down the hall, heading towards his next class.

***

“Pansy,” Harry said, feeling rather nervous. She looked up at him, startled. Ron, too, looked shocked, and then furious. He didn’t speak, but then, Harry hadn’t expected him to. It wasn’t why he’d approached the two of them, snogging in a doorway to an abandoned classroom. His stomach seemed filled with acid and he didn’t think he could stand an entire night of lying awake in his bed wondering and wishing and remembering. It would drive him mad.

“What?” she asked.

“Does Malfoy like Herbology?”

She looked confused and said slowly, “I don’t think so. He finds plants terribly boring.”

Harry nodded, flashed her a weak smile, and said, “Thought so.” He walked away with Ron glaring daggers into his back, but Harry couldn’t care. Classes had just ended, and he was feeling even worse than he had all day. He’d been so worried that he’d see repulsion and rejection on Draco’s face that he had avoided looking at him all day. Which was extremely difficult, given how much he generally liked to look at Draco. Even when they’d hated each other, he had enjoyed watching emotions playing on the other boy’s face, in his eyes.

And now, there was only a fifty-fifty chance that Draco had been lying when he had said what he had said the day before. ‘I think I could love you.’ Harry shivered.

Finding out for sure, however, was something even Harry Potter, Hero and Gryffindor to the Core, lacked the courage to do. After all, if Draco had lied about loving him…it could destroy him. Drive him mad.

There was a mirror over the sink in the boy’s bathroom, and, long after his bath and while his hair dried into dark wisps around his face, Harry studied his reflection. His green eyes, his dark hair, the scar on his forehead. He traced it thoughtfully. If it hadn’t been for that dratted scar, Draco never would have hated him in the first place.

Well, that wasn’t exactly true, Harry remembered. Draco had wanted to be Harry’s friend, originally, and it had been Harry who had rejected him. So really, if Draco rejected him now, it would only be fair, wouldn’t it?

He was desperately wishing there was someone to go to for advice. He certainly couldn’t go to Ron. Not only was Ron still furious, Harry couldn’t imagine what he would think if Harry confessed that not forty eight hours before, Harry had been snogging Draco, and more. That Draco had been inside him. Harry still got shivers at the memory, the delicious sort of shivers. The removal of the spell hadn’t affected that. In fact, it hadn’t changed anything, except that Harry could no longer tell when Draco was lying, not that he had ever really been able to before. Which meant, of course, that Draco hadn’t lied, since this strange relationship had begun, or else Harry would have noticed.

But he still wished there were someone to advise him. Staring into a mirror would hardly help, he knew, even if it were a mirror that could talk, which it couldn’t. If it could talk, it would mostly just comment on the hickey on his neck, which everyone else in the bloody school seemed so obsessed with. Like it was a huge deal. It wasn’t, not really.

He could just imagine what a mirror at the Weasley house would have to say about it. ‘Now that’s what I like to see, evidence of a good shagging.’ Alright, he didn’t really need to imagine it, he’d heard a mirror say just that to Percy Weasley the summer before, when Percy had Apparated suddenly into the small entrance hall of their home, his hair wild, breathing heavily. Whether or not Percy really had just returned from a ‘good shagging’ was in doubt, though he did throw a fit befitting someone in extreme denial. The only evidence against the mirror’s claim was that Percy had just returned from Oliver Wood’s London Flat…

Harry’s eyes widened as he briefly considered that in a new light. Based on his own recent experiences, it was quite possible…

His musings were cut off abruptly when the door opened and Draco walked in.

They stared at each other, wide-eyed with shock and hardly daring to breathe, waiting for some sign. Finally, Draco spoke. “Bloody everlasting hell. Figures you’d be in here, Potter. It’s late, what are you doing here? I didn’t think anyone would be here.”

“I was busy,” Harry replied defensively. “I did Charms homework until late, and this was the only time I could get away for my bath.”

Draco’s eyes flickered to Harry’s damp hair. “Ah. Well then. Hurry along. I can’t go to class smelling like this tomorrow, and I certainly can’t bathe with you in here.” He made an arrogant shooing motion with his hand and Harry felt his chest tighten a little bit. That was it then. Over. Obviously Draco felt nothing any longer.

“I think... I think you smell fine,” Harry said, sounding uncertain. He made no move to go, standing there staring, his throat burning with something like tears.

Eyes narrowed, Draco studied him for a while. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

“No. Why would I?” Harry asked, turning away.

“Exactly. Why would you.” But it was Draco’s turn to sound uncertain. “Unless…”

He trailed off, and Harry spun back around. “Unless what?”

“Nothing.” Scowling, Draco walked past him, turning on the tap for the bath, a stream of hot water hitting the ceramic bottom and breaking the silence. Steam rose up off the water, and soon the room was filled with swirling, sticky heat.

He hadn’t moved. Harry watched Draco, who seemed determined not to acknowledge him. Only after the bath was filled and Draco turned off the water, did Harry speak.

“Draco, we need to talk.” It had taken a lot of courage even for that.

His gray eyes were cold, and Harry would have lost his nerve if he hadn’t noticed Draco’s hands were shaking the tiniest bit. “About what? The spell’s broken.”

Harry took that for proof. Draco no longer felt the same. How much clearer could he be about it? “Fine. Yeah. Same here.” He turned to go.

“Good,” Draco said in a thick voice. “I never wanted any of this anyway, none of it.”

Harry froze and then turned around slowly. “Liar,” he hissed.

Eyes widening a bit, a sharp smile lit up Draco's face. “You want to fight, Potter?” he snarled.

Harry didn’t have his wand with him, but it didn’t matter. If he could not touch Draco gently, he’d touch him in anger, and with that in mind, he slammed his fist into Draco’s face. Draco laughed, even as he shoved Harry, sending him stumbling back, mist swirling. With a growl, Harry launched himself at Draco with enough force to knock him to the ground, sprawling on top of him.

It was a shock, being pressed against the length of Draco’s body that suddenly, and Harry froze, his eyes flying to Draco’s face, his hands twisted in the front of Draco’s shirt. Draco was breathing very, very heavily and his eyes were closed. Against his hip, Harry could feel evidence that fury wasn’t the only thing making Draco breathless.

His lips were close enough to Draco’s that they nearly touched when Harry whispered, “What’s your middle name?”

Draco’s eyes flew open and met Harry’s and the coldness inside of them was gone. Steam had dampened his hair, made it curl a little at the ends. “I haven’t got one,” he said, in a voice that nearly cracked.

Harry’s fists, tangled in Draco’s robes, flattened against his chest, and he breathed out silently as he lowered his head, so his cheek brushed Draco’s, and Harry rested his head on Draco's shoulder, turning his face and burying it in the side of Draco's neck. Draco hesitated for a moment, before lifting one hand and burying his fingers in Harry’s damp hair, his other hand slipping up to rest on the middle of Harry’s back. They lay like that for a long while, tangled together on the floor while Draco’s bath cooled and the mist settled. Both of them were breathing deeply and adjusting to this, being this close with nothing to blame it on, nothing to hide behind. No magical spells drawing them together, no lies and deceptions. It could have been hours later when Harry finally sucked in a trembling breath and said, “I did think of you. Last thing before I went to sleep and first thing in the morning. It’s always been that way and the spell-breaking couldn’t affect that anymore than it could affect this.”

Draco turned his face a little and closed his eyes. Harry felt his eyelashes brush his cheek as Draco did it. “I dreamed of you.”

Smiling a little, Harry lifted his head and staring down at Draco. “You did?”

Draco nodded silently, and Harry kissed him then, very lightly, his fingers tracing circles in the tiny beads of moisture the steam had left on Draco’s face. Then he pulled away, and Draco said quietly, “So what does this mean?”

Harry sat up, grabbing Draco’s hand and pulling him up as well. “I thought that when the spell broke, you didn’t want me anymore. I spent all day regretting that I didn’t just let you leave the spell alone, because the only reason I had you take it off was because I wanted to prove that it was real, but I thought I’d failed in that.”

He blinked. “That’s why you wanted me to break it? Harry, I thought you wanted to prove that it wasn’t real!”

“Why would I want to deny this?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Because it’s wrong.”

Harry reacted as if he’d been stung, jerking away. He stared at Draco for a long moment, his eyes narrowing, righteous anger that Draco would dare call this wrong filling him. With a low growl, Harry slammed his lips against Draco’s grinding his teeth against his lips in some sort of punishment for trying to pretend that this was beneath him. The morally deficient son of Voldemort’s right-hand-man found this wrong?

Draco responded predictably. He moaned and returned the kiss, flipping Harry so that he was beneath him, back pressed against the stone floor, dominating him, tearing at his clothes.

Draco broke the kiss he’d taken control of, sat up, straddling Harry’s waist, and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. Harry growled again, shoving Draco off of him and standing up, jerking his trousers off. He grabbed Draco’s hand and pulled him to his feet, and before Draco could even catch his balance, Harry had pinned him to the wall, kissing him almost violently.

“What are you doing?” Draco asked breathlessly, as Harry pulled away to focus on Draco’s trousers.

“D’you want me to stop?”

“Hell no.”

“Then shut up.”

Draco leaned his head back against the tiled wall, closing his eyes and swallowing heavily. “I think I’ve been a bad influence on you,” he said, his voice shaking a little. “I mean, this is very Slytherin of you.”

Harry didn’t bother to reply. Anger at Draco’s words had made it hard to think, but even that was nothing compared to what the fire in his blood was doing to his mind now.

Draco had to bit his lip to keep from making a sound as Harry fell to his knees before him, and Draco grabbed the counter for support.

“Harry… Harry, what are you doing? I…ohhh…” He sucked in a shaky breath, closing his eyes. “Oh god. Don’t stop…”

Harry did, standing up again and when he pressed his open mouth to Draco’s, Draco could taste himself on Harry’s tongue.

The floor was wet, puddles of water from Harry’s bath and settling steam from Draco’s making it slippery, and as they fought for control of the kiss, they slipped, falling together into the bath and splashing most of the water over the edges, onto the floor.

It didn’t matter though, that Harry’s hair was soaked again, and it had nearly dried, or that his glasses were now spotted with water. Draco’s skin was slick with water and it made him feel like silk, and later, as they lay together trying to catch their breath, Harry whispered, “Now try to tell me again that this is beneath you.”

“It’s not that it’s beneath me, Harry, that’s not why it’s wrong.” Draco’s voice was husky.

“Why, then?” Harry buried his head in the side of Draco’s neck. He was still shaking.

Draco was silent for a long moment, and then he said quietly, “Because. Because it’s an archetype. A cliché. Tempting the light into darkness. That’s why it’s wrong.”

“Tempt me, alright, but not into evil. Into you. All over you. Draco… This isn’t wrong. How can it be wrong?” Harry sounded like he was begging, and the knowledge made him wince.

Draco shook his head and replied in a lost tone, “It can’t be. It’s the most right thing I’ve ever known. It has to be wrong, Harry, it has to be.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Harry cried desperately.

“This doesn’t make any sense! It’ll never last, you know. It’s doomed from the beginning. Ever since we’ve known each other, we’ve repelled each other like magnets. I pushed you closer to Dumbledore and you became his Wonder Boy and I grew so…so jealous that I responded by pushing myself as far away as I could, straight into Voldemort and if you get hurt by this, by becoming my weakness… Harry, it’s wrong.”

“I’ve never seen you fall apart like this.”

“That’s because I never have.”

It was silent for a long time, and then Harry sat up. Water ran down his back and chest, but he didn’t notice, untangling himself from around Draco and then helping him sit up as well. The remaining water in the bath lapped at their legs. “Draco,” Harry said, very gently. “This has nothing to do with Voldemort or Dumbledore. It’s just me and you. That’s all it’s ever been.”

Draco scowled. “I don’t think I know how to make you understand.”

“You’ve never cared if I understand you before, why start now?”

“Because now it has everything to do with you and if you don’t understand, you’ll be hurt.”

“I’m not afraid. Draco, you said this is the most right thing you’ve ever known. Isn’t that enough?”

“I said a lot of things,” Draco replied almost absently.

“Like that you thought you could love me.”

Draco’s eyes flew to Harry’s and then flicked away. “Yeah. Like that.”

Harry couldn’t think of a thing to reassure Draco. It was incomprehensible that Draco would deny himself something that gave him pleasure, just as incomprehensible that he would do it out of worry for someone else.

Instead of wasting words that would be awkward and unsure, Harry touched Draco’s face, turning back towards his own, and kissed him very, very gently, coaxingly. It was different than anything else, because for the first time, Draco let himself be led, touched without needing to dominate, controlled without needing to fight it. It wasn’t half as bad as he had always thought it would be.

Harry pulled away and said, “Trust me, Draco. It’s right.”

“Fine, Potter,” Draco replied finally, smirking a little and rolling his eyes. “You’ve convinced me. Or at least, I’ll let it go, because any more of this kind of convincing and we’ll still be in here come morning and, judging by our luck, some professor will walk in on us.”

Harry grinned. “You know you liked it.”

“Mmm. Yes. I’m going to have to run myself another bath now, you know.”

“Do it, and I’ll wash your hair,” Harry suggested impishly.

Draco looked appalled. “I’m quite capable of washing my own hair, Potter!” he snapped.

Harry laughed, climbing out of the bath. His clothes were wet and he pulled them on with a grimace. “Fine then, I’ll leave you to it.”

Harry made his way to the door, and was just about to slip out into the hall, when Draco called, “Potter?”

He turned. “What?”

Draco was smirking playfully. “One of these days I’m gonna have to teach you how to kiss like a man.”

Harry tried desperately to think of a reply to that, his face slowly turning red, but instead, he just slammed the door and hurried away.

Draco’s laughter followed him all the way down the hall.

9 

I'm learning to breathe
I'm learning to crawl
I'm finding that You and
You alone can break my fall
I'm living again, awake and alive
I'm dying to breathe in these abundant skies
So this is the way
that I say that I need You
This is the way
That I say I love You
This is the way
That I say I'm Yours
--Learning to Breathe, Switchfoot

“It’s just an ordinary day,” Draco told himself, as he sat at the window in the Slytherin dungeons, just before dawn. The giant squid was out already, breaking up the ice that had formed the night before, and Draco tilted his head as he watched. Somehow, even if it was like every other morning, at the same time, it wasn’t. How could it be, when everything had changed?

He hadn’t slept much the night before. He’d lain up all night, trying to think of ways that this could go wrong, that he could be hurt. After all, nothing he ever tried to do turned out the way he wanted it to. Just look at the whole journal thing. Rather than having control over Potter, being able to command Potter…Well. He wanted to… kiss him. It had been completely unforeseen, though in retrospect, he couldn’t imagine it turning out any other way.

It all seemed to make a bit more sense at breakfast, however, when he walked into the Great Hall and Harry seemed instantly to sense him there, glancing over and smiling, a slight, lopsided and secretive smile. Draco returned it, even as he rolled his eyes indulgently and went to his own table.

“You alright, Draco?” Pansy asked, as he took his seat beside her.

“You look pale,” Goyle added, though he hadn’t looked up.

“He always looks pale,” Pansy snapped, rolling her eyes in irritation.

“I’m fine, where’s Crabbe?” Draco replied, changing the subject.

Goyle shrugged. “When I sat near her, he refused to sit with me.” He shrugged.

“Oh.”

They finished breakfast and made their way to Potions. Pansy seemed determined to make up for his unusually quiet mood by talking three times as much as usual, though he didn’t mind. Goyle had gone off to find Crabbe.

They had been learning about Wolfsbane Potion, and that day was to be their first class in which Snape taught them to brew it.

He was looking grim, probably imagining all the ways they were going to screw up what was a very difficult and complex concoction, and started the class off by saying, “I don’t suppose any student in this class is capable of brewing this potion alone. That said, I’ve decided that the only way any of you stand a chance of getting it right is if you are combined into larger groups. You will brew your potions in groups of three. Make up your groups and send someone up to the front to get your ingredients. Hurry up.”

“Oi, Pansy!” Weasley cried at once, after Snape had finished talking. “I’ll be in your group!” He still wasn’t speaking to Harry.

Pansy shot Draco a beseeching look. “Sorry, Draco, do you mind?”

“Excuse me? Work with Weasley? Willingly?”

“Please, Draco?” she begged.

“You’re welcome to him, Pansy, but I’ll find another group.” He walked away quickly, rolling his eyes. Weasley took his seat, and Draco made his way over to Harry’s table.

“You can’t be in our group,” Granger said at once.

“Can’t he?” Harry asked, one eyebrow raised.

“I refuse to work with him,” Granger said stuffily.

“Oh, shut up, Hermione,” Harry said mildly, moving his stuff aside so Draco could sit beside him. Draco smiled at her smugly even as Harry finished. “Who else are we going to have in our group? Everyone’s already gotten into groups of three, there’s no one else. Besides, he’s almost as good at Potions as you are.” His tone was teasing and he reached over and took Draco’s hand under the table, smiling at him.

“Well, if you would apologize to Ron already,” she snapped, “We wouldn’t have to work with Malfoy out of desperation. Be in our group, see if I care, but we better get 100%, Draco Malfoy, or you’ll pay. If you screw this up…” She scowled, shaking her head. “I’ll go get the ingredients.

Draco snorted. “Bitchy little thing, isn’t she?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t piss her off, Draco, I’d like to have at least a few friends when the day is over.”

“You don’t need friends, Potter, you’ve got me.”

Harry’s face felt rather warm, and he smiled almost shyly. “That’s right, I do, don’t I?”

Draco smiled at him. Before he could say anything, Granger had returned, depositing their ingredients on the table.

Harry had never had a more interesting Potions class. It wasn’t the Wolfsbane Potion, though that would come in handy. It was the interesting interactions of Hermione and Draco, both who seemed incredibly possessive of him. Draco seemed always to find a way to touch him, whether it be just touching his hand as he reached for something, leaning close enough to brush his shoulder against Harry’s, or under the table, where sometimes, Draco would touch Harry’s hand or his leg. Hermione didn’t notice, because everything looked perfectly accidental, though she did seem blatantly to be ignoring Draco, forcing Harry to speak to her and look at her, pay attention to her, and if he seemed to drift off, she’d kick him under the table. Draco, of course, noticed all of this and found it incredibly amusing to try to distract Harry, if only because it was driving Hermione mad, and more likely because he found the most interesting ways to distract him.

All he had to do was say Harry’s name and Harry would jump a little and turn towards him, forgetting Hermione existed.

By the end of class, she was watching them both with narrow eyes.

She packed up her things, still shooting suspicious glances at the two of them. Draco further unnerved her by smiling very sweetly, and she leapt out of her chair.

They started cleaning up the potion ingredients in silence, and just as they’d finished, Draco knocked over a beaker of Emery blood.

“Oh, bother,” he said, not sounding bothered at all.

Hermione stared at the pool of blood in disgust. “Malfoy, honestly, I don’t have time for this, I’ve got an exam in my next class!”

“Go on, Hermione,” Harry said quickly. “We’ll do it.”

Her eyes narrowed once more and she watched as Harry reached for a rag to clean the mess up with. Draco reached for the same one at the same second and their hands brushed, staying in contact for a few seconds too long.

“Mmm. Yes. Uhh. I’ll see you at lunch, Harry,” she said distractedly, before hurrying out of the classroom. Most of the other students had left as well, leaving only Snape to sourly take stock of the damage. He was too busy inspecting the sad attempts at the potion to take much notice of Harry and Draco, who quickly cleaned up the blood. Then, laughing breathlessly, Harry let Draco grab him by the arm and tug him into the hall.

“C’mon,” he said. “We’ve got to hurry.”

“Hurry? Why? Draco, I’ve got class.”

“Exactly. And we don’t want to be too late, do we? People will get suspicious.” He grinned over his shoulder, and they took off running down a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into the wing that led to the greenhouses. Harry started laughing halfway up the stairs and didn’t stop until they’d ducked into the arch over Greenhouse Three. Even still, every few seconds, he’d snicker breathlessly.

“What if someone sees?” Harry asked, though he didn’t really care.

“They won’t,” Draco promised. “Sprout always needs a bit of time to prepare for her next class, to finish up whatever didn’t get done and needs to be done immediately. All her teaching blocks are scattered, so no one’ll be down here now.”

“Mmm,” Harry murmured, too distracted to really care. Draco was kissing him and nothing else mattered. He tightened his grip on Draco’s hand, closing his eyes, and their hands and lips were the only place they touched.

“This is very strange,” Harry said when Draco pulled away.

Draco smiled. “But I like it.”

“Do it again then.”

Smirking, Draco kissed him again, rough and playfully, biting at his lips and making Harry laugh, breathless giggles cut off every now and again by another kiss.

Draco was nibbling on his earlobe and Harry had closed his eyes, tilting his head back against the door, when there was a startled gasp.

The next thing he knew, Draco was being shoved off of him and someone was shouting hysterically, “Harry, Harry, what was he doing to you? Is he a vampire? I knew it!”

Still rather dazed, Harry stared at Ginny, his eyes clouded over. Taking that as a sign that a vampire had indeed just attacked him, Ginny spun towards Draco, who was also feeling rather disoriented. “You bastard, what have you done to him?” she cried.

“Ginny,” Harry said, shaking his head a little.

“Don’t talk, Harry, you’ve lost a lot of blood,” Ginny said, standing protectively in front of him and glowering at Draco, who, for the first time in his life, kept darting unsure glances at Harry. He didn’t know how to react to this, if Harry wanted to keep it a secret.

“Ginny,” Harry said, firmer this time. “Draco didn’t bite me.” Draco looked as if he were about to argue and Harry amended quickly, “Well, he didn’t drink my blood, anyway.”

She spun around to face him. “Oh really?” she asked, rolling her eyes. “Then what was he doing, necking with you?”

Harry’s eyes flew to Draco and Draco smirked a little. “Ginny,” Harry said, very gently, even as he reached over and took Draco’s hand. Rather relieved, Draco let himself be tugged to stand at Harry’s side.

Ginny’s eyes widened very slowly as she stared at their joined hands, letting out a confused whimper. “I’ve… I forgot my book,” she said slowly, wide eyes flying from Draco, watching her with rather detached amusement, and Harry, who was struggling to find someway to make this less awkward.

“Did you find it?” Draco asked, after the silence became too dreadful even for him.

She held up a book as proof. “Uh huh.”

“Then be on your way. We’re rather busy.”

She nodded like a puppet and, still pale and startled, turned and mechanically walked down the hall.

Harry waited until she was gone. Then he started swearing.

Draco rolled his eyes. “It really wasn’t as harsh as it could have been.”

“You don’t understand. She tells her brother everything.”

“Ah. So you wanted this a secret?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “No. I wanted to tell Ron myself, after he’d gotten over the fact that he thinks I’ve been messing with Ginny’s head deliberately and trying to hurt her. He’s very dense when it comes to his sister.”

“He’s very dense about a lot of things.”

Harry ignored him. “He’ll hate me. He’ll never understand. Draco, he won’t understand.”

“He doesn’t have to,” Draco said quietly, seeing the sincere panic in Harry’s eyes. “You understand and I understand and he doesn’t matter.”

“He’s my best friend. You wouldn’t understand…”

“Oh, of course not, I have no friends, only servants, and they call me your majesty,” Draco said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

Harry glanced at him and cried, “This is really important, can you be serious for even a minute here?”

“I’m always serious! I just don’t see the concern!”

“That’s because you hate him! He can’t hate me. He was the first friend I’ve ever had.”

“You could be jumping ahead of yourself, Harry. Maybe he’ll understand.”

“Understand that his sister who’s in love with me caught me making out with not only another guy, but the guy who’s made his life hell for seven years?”

Draco brightened considerably at that. “Made his life hell? Really? Well, I do try.”

Harry glared at him. “Draco. You’re not helping.”

He sighed. “It’s simple. You’ve just got to tell Weasley before his sister gets to him. He’s in class now anyway, as we should be. We’re very late.”

Harry still looked uncertain. “I didn’t want anyone to know,” he said quietly.

“Ashamed?” Draco asked coldly, sneering.

“No. It was a secret, it was just ours, no one else knew about it. It was…secret. The only thing I’ve ever had that no one else knew about.”

Draco smiled at him. “We’ve got to get to class, Harry. You can tell Weasley whatever you want after that. I’ll even come with you if you want.”

Harry looked relieved. “You will? That’ll probably infuriate him more, but… it’ll make it easier for me.”

“Of course I’ll come with you,” Draco said, looking pained at the thought of willingly associating with Weasley. Harry looked relived and he took his hand and they walked off down the hall together.

***

As soon as his last class ended, Harry met Draco in the Great Hall and they went to find Ron. Though he tried to hide it, Harry was feeling incredibly nervous. Confessing to Ron would be the hardest thing he’d ever done.

“I heard him mention something about the library,” Harry said. “Hermione was telling him to meet her there after class. C’mon.”

They went to the library, Draco waiting outside and Harry going in to see if Ron was there. He was sitting on a table at the back and looking bored. Hermione wasn’t there yet.

“Ron,” Harry said quietly. “We’ve got to talk.”

He looked startled, and then he scowled. “No, I’ve got nothing to say.”

“I’ve got to explain some things to you, it’s important. I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea, but I never meant to hurt your sister. Come with me, we can’t talk in here.”

He still looked sullen, but Ron hopped off the table and followed Harry out of the library. When he saw Draco there, however, he froze.

“What’s he doing here?”

Harry licked his lips nervously, glancing from Draco’s lazy smirk and Ron’s pinched face. “Ron…”

Ron looked at him. “What?”

Trying desperately to think of something to say, Harry shot Draco a pleading look. Rolling his eyes a little, Draco drawled, “Look, Weasley, it’s like this —”

“What are you doing here?” Ron snapped.

“I asked him to come,” Harry blurted.

His eyes narrowed and Ron glanced back at him. “Why? Harry… why? You hate him.”

“I don’t.”

There was a tense silence as Ron glanced from Draco to Harry and back again. “Is that what this is about? You’ve got a new best friend? Malfoy?”

Harry was feeling desperate again. “No, Ron, he’s not my best friend! You’re my best friend!”

“Then what are you trying to say?” Ron shouted, losing his temper.

Harry was shaking and fighting panic. Forgetting about Weasley for the moment, Draco reached over and took his hand. “Calm down, Harry,” he said quietly, teasingly. “You’re forgetting how to breathe again.”

“Don’t touch him,” Ron said shakily. “Don’t fucking touch him. Harry, don’t let him touch you.”

Ron was staring at their joined hands with disgust and something almost like terror in his eyes. Harry’s hand tightened instinctively around Draco’s and he glared at Ron. “I like it when he touches me, Ron, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

“You hurt my sister, played with her, made her cry, as a cover for… for… It’s wrong, it’s wrong, how could you? Harry, how could you let him touch you?” He sounded lost and weak, and Harry lost his temper.

“What, it surprises you that I’d rather be with Malfoy than your little sister? That I’d rather he kissed me than she did? Honestly, Ron! Being with her was painful, I never wanted her, you just kept pushing her at me, and every time I tried to get away, you blamed me for hurting her! If I led her on, it was only because you wouldn’t let me get away. If anyone hurt her, it was you, with your incessant claims that I was meant to be with her! I’m not, I never was. I am where I belong. With Draco.”

There was a stunned, painful silence, and Harry suddenly realized that Ron wasn’t even looking at him anymore. He was staring at something just over Harry’s shoulder and, with a sick feeling of dread, Harry turned. Hermione was standing there, one hand tightly wrapped around Ginny’s upper arm, the only thing keeping the red haired girl from turning and running as fast as she could. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and stunned, shining with tears.

“Ginny,” Harry said, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean —”

Hermione’s lower lip was trembling. “Harry…” she chided, very gently. A low sound, like an animal in pain, escaped Ginny’s lips, and she wrenched away. Harry would have thought she’d run, but she didn’t. She was staring at him with dark, bruised eyes.

“Harry,” she said, in a lost little voice. “I was coming to tell Ron that… that it wasn’t your fault. That if you were in love with someone else, it was alright. I… I didn’t mean…” She trailed off, glancing at Draco who, for the first time was looking at her with something other than a cold sneer. He looked almost compassionate. “I’m sorry.”

She walked away, her entire body stiff as if she were made of glass and afraid she would break. Harry shot Ron a panicked glance, but Ron didn’t seem to be over his shock yet, and Hermione said quietly, “Go after her, Harry.”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve got to make Ron understand.”

“I’ll explain it to him,” she said, smiling gently.

“But how do you know?”

“How dense do you think I am? Go after her.”

With one last glance at Draco, Harry let go of his hand and took off after Ginny. Hermione ignored him, took Ron by the arm, and led him away. Seconds later, Draco was standing alone outside the library. He rolled his eyes, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “That could have gone better, I’ll admit that,” he said out loud, wishing that he felt more confident that Harry would eventually be back.

***

He had no idea where Ginny went when she was upset, so if Harry had any chance of talking with her, he knew he had to catch up to her before she got too far away or he’d never find her.

He ran as fast as he could, desperate to find her and explain. Finally catching up to her just outside of Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, he grabbed her by the arm. She yelped, startled, and spun around to face him, furious.

“Harry, let me go,” she said stubbornly, tugging at her arm.

Harry was panting, trying to catch his breath. “No, I’ve got to talk to you, you’ve got to let me explain.”

“There’s nothing to explain. Do you have any idea how humiliating that was? Honestly, Harry!”

He was vaguely surprised and impressed. Ginny was proving that she had a backbone for the first time. “No, that’s what you’ve got to understand. I never meant you to hear that.”

She rolled her eyes and spat, “Oh, so you only wanted Malfoy and Ron how you’d never wanted me? How you hated me?”

“I don’t hate you,” he said quietly.

She laughed spitefully. “Oh, no, you don’t. What is it you said? Being near me was painful?”

“Ginny…I didn’t mean it. I was just so angry at him.”

She finally succeeded in wrenching her arm from his grip. “You know what, Harry? I really liked you. Back in first year, I would have done anything for you. You were so blind, but that was alright, because at least that, I understood. This, this whole year, you’ve been acting so strangely towards me, and you know what? If Harry-Potter-Boy-Who-Lived is that unstable, I decided weeks ago that I wanted nothing to do with it! The night of the Halloween Ball. That’s when I decided. But you kept acting like you might want me and pushing me away and I was so confused, but I didn’t want you… I didn’t.”

He wondered if she was lying but couldn’t quite tell. “Honestly, Ginny, we were friends, weren’t we? Before all of this happened this year?”

“Friends? You were so obsessed with your little group of Ron and Hermione that you didn’t know I existed, Harry! How is that friendship? And now look what you’ve done, destroyed all that as well, and for what? Some perverted relationship with Malfoy?”

He flinched. “It isn’t like that, it’s not. Listen to me.”

“Then defend yourself, Harry. Prove that hurting me and making me cry and hurting Ron and breaking up your precious little group of friends was worth it.”

He started to get a little angry himself. “I don’t see you crying, Ginny.”

“You never did,” she said softly, shaking her head.

It was silent for a moment or two, because Harry didn’t know what to say. Finally, he sighed. “Those things I said to Ron today, they weren’t true. I was just so angry, I wasn’t thinking right. We were friends, Ginny, before all of this happened, and I never meant to hurt you. Just as I never meant for any of this with Draco to happen. But it did, and I can’t change it, and I can’t take any of it back.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she asked quietly, “You’d take it back? Everything with Malfoy? If it meant that you had never hurt me and that you and Ron were alright again, would you take it back?”

Harry took a slow step back, his eyes wide and dark. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“Well then, figure it out before you try explaining it to me again,” she snapped, walking away. Harry didn’t bother going after her, and he didn’t notice when, as soon as she turned the corner, she fell to the ground and started to cry, much the way he had expected in the beginning.

Harry turned slowly and walked away, feeling bruised all over and very tired.

***

Hours had gone by, and Draco had wandered around the castle, vaguely amused and embittered all at once at the knowledge that he, a Malfoy and a Slytherin and all else combined, was wandering the castle moping and waiting for The-Boy-Who-Lived to remember he existed and come back for him. Finally, as the sun set, he made his way back to his common room, annoyed at Harry for not coming to find him and disgusted at himself for waiting, and for his paranoid imaginings of all the nasty things Harry could have gotten up to with the Weasley girl by now. Jealousy, especially as irrational as it was in this case, was not something he was used to feeling.

He sat by the long windows that looked out towards the lake. On the windowsill with his legs pulled up and his arms looped around them; he was still sitting that way when Pansy entered the common room, glanced around almost nervously, and approached him.

“Draco.”

He glanced at her, startled. Then he smiled, though it was forced and weak. “Oh. Pansy. Done shagging Weasley for the night?”

She rolled her eyes and perched nervously on the nearest chair. “Don’t be crude, Draco.”

He laughed. “Crude, me? Never.” He turned so his legs were hanging over the ledge of the window and studied her for a moment. Abruptly, he said, “What do you want?”

“To talk. I heard something strange about you and wanted to know if it was true.”

“You know I don’t put much stock in rumors.”

“Ron told me.”

Draco stiffened. “Ah. And what did Weasley tell you?”

She glanced around nervously and said reluctantly, “That you had been… that you and… you…”

He rolled his eyes. “Shagged Harry Potter?”

Flinching a little at his dry tone, she shrugged. “Yeah… Did you? I didn’t believe him when he told me, but he was so adamant that I just had to ask. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Like Draco Malfoy would ever willing touch someone like Harry Potter —”

He cut her off by hopping off the windowsill and walking away. Startled, Pansy stared after him for a long moment before hurrying to follow him. She stopped him just before he went up the stairs to his dormitory by grabbing his arm. He froze, and said in a tight voice, without turning, “Don’t touch me. Don’t fucking touch me.”

Pansy snatched her hand back as if it had been burned. “Draco,” she said softly. “Talk to me. What did I say?”

He turned quickly and snarled, “What is it you want to hear? All the nasty details? If you thought I was being crude before, Pansy, you wouldn’t be able to handle that.”

“D-details?” she squeaked.

He didn’t care that there were other people in the common room who might overhear. It didn’t matter anyway, because when he started to shout, the small group of first years, the only other occupants of the room, exchanged a few startled glances and left hurriedly.

“Yes, details,” he spat, and she stepped back, startled. He stalked her like some sort of wild cat, until she was backed against the wall. His voice rose with every word. “Details about how it happened, how I ended up fucking Harry-Potter-Wonder-Boy like an animal, and every sound he made, and every sound I made, and how many times and where and when and how…” Finally, his voice fell to a silken whisper. “And how much I liked it. How it was to be inside him. Those details. Isn’t that what you came here for?”

Her wide eyes held his for a long moment, and she shook her head slowly. “No,” she whispered. “I came because we’ve known each other our whole lives, and if you were hurting, I wanted to help you.”

“Help me?” he growled. “Oh, of course I need help. Because Draco Malfoy would never willingly touch someone like Harry Potter.”

“I didn’t know you had,” she said delicately, pushing at his chest lightly to get him to back off and let her move. He still had her pinned against the wall. “Honestly, Draco, I’m not afraid of you. Are you trying to scare me?”

“You certainly looked scared.”

“Startled, yes. It’s not everyday you find out the boy you’ve known forever and had a crush on as a little girl is…well…shagging his worst enemy…and a… umm… another guy.” She shrugged, and slipped away from him, studying him from a safer distance. Finally, she asked, “Why?” Her voice was laden with curiosity.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he said finally, with a wry and self-deprecating smile. He went back to the windowsill, sitting on it and staring out at the lake again, thoughtfully. The sun had gone down now and silver moonlight was the only light in the common room as no one had yet lit the fire in the hearth. It cast Draco in silver shadows and, Pansy decided almost ruefully, almost made it look like he was carved from marble.

“Wouldn’t I?” she asked quietly, pulling herself up onto the sill beside him. “Understand, I mean. Maybe not all of it. But some. Ron wasn’t exactly the best person for me to fall for, you know.”

Draco smiled. “Mmm, I know. Weasley isn’t the best person for anyone to fall for.”

She rolled her eyes and shoved him playfully. “Be nice.”

“I’m always nice,” he said angelically.

“Mmm, yeah, sure.”

There was silence for a while, and Draco rested his head on his folded arms, lost in thought. It was a clear, cloudless night, and he could easily see all the way down to the lake. He wondered fleetingly where Harry was and if he should go look for him, but forced the thoughts away. After all, if Draco Malfoy didn’t willingly touch someone like Harry Potter, then he certainly didn’t spend hours waiting for him and then go in search of him when he neglected to come back. There was just so far he could lower himself in this bloody situation without permanently damaging his pride.

“Draco?” Pansy asked, after a while had passed. “Can I ask you something?”

He glanced at her and shrugged. “I don’t care. What?”

“Did it mean anything? You and him, I mean.”

Draco considered for a long moment and then said abruptly, “Everything. It was everything.” He didn’t know if he expected her to scoff or laugh, or maybe even understand. After all, her relationship with Ron had to be something like his with Harry. Something that never should have happened, but now that it had, he couldn’t see any other way things could have turned out.

“Well… Ron was pretty upset, when I talked to him. Because they’d had a huge fight, from what I understand. And if Ron was any indication, then I’ve got to say, Harry’s got to be a mess right now.”

“So?”

“So what are you doing here with me?”

He looked away, shoulders slumping, and laughed scornfully. “He didn’t come back for me,” he said after a long pause.

“So?”

Draco scowled. “So? I may not hate the git any longer, but I’m still a Malfoy, for god’s sake! I don’t go following people like a lovesick puppy.”

She rolled her eyes. “C’mon, Draco, even if you did go after him, you’d hardly be a lovesick puppy. More like a lovesick dragon, and there’s still some dignity in that. If it means that much to you, and I know you well enough to see that it does, even if I don’t understand how it happened, then go after him. I won’t tell anyone, and he’ll most likely appreciate it. If he doesn’t, he’s a fool.”

“Are you trying to advise me?” Draco snickered.

She shoved him off the windowsill. “Yeah, and maybe someday you’ll get over yourself enough to thank me for it,” she said, laughing.

Draco, looking disgruntled at having been pushed, straightened his clothing and said scathingly, “Yeah, and maybe someday you’ll remember that I told you not to touch me.”

She grinned. “Maybe. But probably not.”

Smiling reluctantly, Draco rolled his eyes. He moved to take his seat on the windowsill again, but Pansy stopped him with a glare. “Draco,” she scolded. “What’s more damaging to your pride? Moping around in here and being all ‘oh poor me, the object of my affections had a huge fight with his best friend and forgot to come back for me’ or going after him yourself? I didn’t think Malfoys were the type to give up when they want something. At least, not this easily.”

“Fine!” Draco snapped. “I’ll go, alright?”

She smiled brightly. “Good.”

He glared at her once more before letting himself out of the common room, and she was still beaming at him.

***

“It’s not like I had a choice,” Harry said, and Hedwig just watched him patiently. It was cold, with the tower window open, but he didn’t notice. The chill served to keep his growing headache at bay, and he was grateful for that.

“It’s not like I betrayed them all on purpose,” he whispered, feeding her an owl treat. She had found him up in the tower and delivered a letter from Sirius that he hadn’t yet bothered to look at. “It wasn’t like I had a choice,” he repeated.

“Potter.”

He jumped and spun around. Draco was standing in the tower, his eyes narrowed. He looked very indignant. “Draco,” Harry said with a shaking smile. “Hi. I didn’t know you were there.”

“You never came back.” He sounded sullen.

“Ginny and I fought and I… needed to think.

Draco rolled his eyes and frowned. “You never came back. I don’t wait for people, Harry. I was…”

“What?”

“Well, imagining all manner of foul things you could be up to with Weasley’s sister, actually.”

Harry looked shocked. “Jealous? I made Draco Malfoy jealous?”

Draco scoffed. “Don’t get used to the idea, I assure you that it won’t happen again.”

Harry smiled. “Good. Cos you’ve got nothing to be jealous of. We fought. Ginny and I, I mean.”

“About me?”

He shrugged. “More about me, really.”

Draco was feeling rather insecure and he hated the feeling. He scowled fiercely. “You said that you didn’t have a choice. When I was standing in the doorway. Like… like you didn’t want this. I gave you plenty of opportunities to deny it, Potter. Plenty of opportunities to run like a child.”

“You said so yourself that I was never a child. Neither of us were.”

“Being a child and having a childhood are completely different things, but you’re changing the subject. You said that you’d never been given a choice.” He tossed his head back and snorted. “I’m giving you one now.”

Harry watched him nervously. There was a tense energy wound tightly around Draco and it worried him. “Draco, are you alright?”

“Alright?” Draco snapped, voice like a whip. “I waited for you, Harry! Like a bloody fool, I waited for hours. I don’t wait for people, and if I ever did lower myself to wait, I certainly would expect whomever it was I was waiting for to show up.”

“Draco —”

But Draco wasn’t finished yet. “What sort of trust is that? The first time something happens with those bloody friends of yours, you go prancing off and forget I exist? I won’t have it, no one forgets I exist, not even —”

Harry was shaking his head in a bemused sort of way and he walked towards Draco, smiling indulgently. Before Draco could say another word, Harry interrupted with, “You stupid, stupid Malfoy.” He kissed him then, holding his face captive with his hands, and when he finally let him go, all of Draco’s righteous anger had drained away, letting Harry see the true insecurities beneath.

“Not even someone who didn’t have a choice in being with me,” Draco finished quietly.

Harry’s eyes widened a fraction, and his hands were still on Draco’s face. “Stupid Malfoy,” he said again, very softly. “You think if I had a choice, I would have chosen anything other than this?”

For a wild moment, Draco just stared at him, speechless and trying to decide how he was supposed to react to that. “Then make up your bloody mind!” he shouted finally, losing all control. “If you feel that way, than stop going on as if you’re just a victim of fate! If you don’t want this, then bugger off! If you do, then stop with the unnecessary moping! Honestly, Harry, you did have a choice and you chose this and now it’s like you’re feeling guilty and trying to say you had no choice in the matter, as if that’ll make it alright. Well I won’t have it. Make up your sodding mind, right now. Do you want this? Do you want me? And remember, Potter. I’m a Malfoy. Most people don’t get second chances, and I honestly think this must be your fourth or fifth.”

Harry, feeling rather stung at being attacked by all of his friends and now Draco as well, said weakly, “Draco, don’t.”

“Fine,” Draco snapped. “You don’t want to choose? Then I’ll choose for you.”

“Don’t… don’t go,” Harry pleaded, even as he winced at how weak he sounded.

“Go?” Draco repeated, his tone low and silky even as he stepped closer. “You seem to have forgotten, Potter. I’m a Malfoy. If you didn’t want me, it wouldn’t matter, because we don’t generally ask permission for what we want, we just take it. And I wouldn’t be here now if I didn’t want you. You don’t want to choose, then I’ll choose for you.” He had backed Harry up against the window now, startling Hedwig and sending her flying out of the tower with an indignant shriek.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked nervously.

Draco smiled slightly. “Making up your mind for you.”

Harry swallowed thickly. “Well, hurry up,” he said weakly. “You’re driving me mad, being this close and all.”

Smirking triumphantly, Draco tilted Harry’s head up and slammed his lips down, driving all thoughts about anything other than how much he wanted this from Harry’s mind.

Draco forced Harry’s mouth open and kissed him so hard that it nearly hurt. His fingers dug into Harry’s arms, his tongue flicking into his mouth, lips crushing Harry’s, grinding them against his teeth. It was punishment for making Draco doubt Harry and in turn doubt himself, and Harry decided rather breathlessly that if this were the punishment for making Draco jealous, he should definitely try to do it again, many times in the future.

And then, so suddenly that Harry let out a low moan of frustration, Draco stepped back and let go.

“Draco, what?” Harry asked incoherently, taking a steadying breath.

“You’re mine, Potter.”

Harry frowned. “You own me?”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

Draco smiled slowly, devilishly, and Harry watched his lips hungrily. “Since I decided you were worth owning.”

“Like a horse.” Harry still hadn’t quite gotten a hold of himself, after Draco’s devastating kiss.

Nodding with a regal air, Draco said, “Quite right, Potter.”

Harry felt vaguely like he should be arguing, but somehow staring at Draco’s lips just seemed like the better thing to do. However, halfheartedly, he said, “Does that mean I own you too?”

Snorting, Draco drawled, “Malfoys aren’t owned by anyone, Potter.”

“And Potters are?”

“Apparently.”

Before Harry, who was beginning to feel quite indignant, could argue, Draco kissed him again, and Harry let his indignation slip away. After all, it wasn’t as if he couldn’t bring this up later when there weren’t so many distractions. Besides, it wasn’t as if Draco had claimed him, was it? Left some mark on him…

“…Oh.” Harry shivered, as Draco started ripping his cloths off. “You’re ravishing me, aren’t you?” He laughed and then began returning the favour. He paused as Draco’s shirt hit the floor. “But you don’t own me, Draco Malfoy. You’re wrong.”

Draco just smiled and kissed him again, having decided that more distraction was in order. And distract he did. Moments later, on the floor and on top of Harry, who seemed to have forgotten how to breathe, Draco began teasing Harry almost beyond control. He flicked his tongue along the outer shell of Harry’s ear. “Say it. C’mon, you know it’s true.”

“No,” Harry said shakily, answering the challenge he heard in Draco’s voice with a lopsided and rather desperate smile. “It’s not true. I am not yours.”

Draco smiled grimly. After all, he always welcomed a challenge.

Moments later, he’d driven Harry to the edge over and over again only to back off with a small smirk, and Harry was nearly wild with desperation. He was pouting like a sullen child, his body bathed in sweat, his hands trembling.

Draco smiled very slowly, and bit Harry’s bottom lip playfully. “You’re mine, Harry,” he said coaxingly, his hand trailing down Harry’s sweaty chest, over his flat stomach, and lower.

Harry let his eyes close slowly, his eyelashes brushing Draco’s lips as the other boy hovered over him. His breath hissing out between his teeth, Harry breathed, “I’m yours.”

Draco smiled triumphantly as he kissed Harry very gently, even as the other boy arched against him and moaned. Draco pushed inside him and Harry knew that it was true.

He was lost. Body, heart, and soul. Draco may as well have branded him and claimed him with a thousand flags, because there was no going back. Harry belonged to him, and no matter what happened in the future, Draco was inside of him, all over him, and Harry didn’t care one bit. If he believed in fate, he would have said that everything in his life had led up to this.

As it was, he was too busy trying to catch his breath to consider it.

A/N: The line 'I have no friends, only servants...' was borrowed from the movie The Swan Princess.

10 

What are you hungry for?
Just a slice of something sweet?
Or a smorgasbord of lost romances?
What do you need me for?
Another enemy to beat,
Just to prove that you've thrown all your chances out?
--Matt Caplan, September

When Harry entered the Gryffindor common room, his eyes were blazing with some new conviction he hadn’t had in the hall when confronting his friends earlier. It didn’t matter that his hair was wild from Draco’s fingers, his clothing wasn’t quite tidy, or that his lips were a little swollen from having been kissed so many times, because no one noticed that. All they noticed was his eyes and how bright they were. Harry’s eyes hadn’t been that bright since beginning the third challenge at the Triwizard Tournament in third year.

“Harry?” Hermione asked. “You alright?”

Ron didn’t say a thing, but he ran his eyes over Harry’s body, noting his hair and his lips and the wrinkles in his clothes. He turned away in disgust, conveniently forgetting that his own hair was ruffled from Pansy’s fingers and his own lips swollen from her kisses.

“Ron,” Harry said sharply. “Outside, now. We’ve got to talk.”

“I don’t want to talk,” Ron said stubbornly. “At least not to you.”

“And I don’t want to hear anymore of your hypocritical whining. Outside, now.”

Ron’s eyes widened a bit. “I don’t want —”

Harry grabbed him by the front of his robes, hauled him to his feet, and shoved him out of the portrait hole.

“Harry…” Hermione began.

He smiled at her. “I won’t hurt him. We’ll talk when I’m done with him.”

The portrait closed behind him, and Ron was waiting with a baleful glare on his pale face. “Don’t push me around,” he snarled.

“Then listen when I tell you to do something,” Harry replied easily. “C’mon, we’ve got to talk.”

Ron still looked mutinous, but he followed Harry down the hall and into an empty classroom. “I don’t think we have anything to talk about.”

“I do. I’m only going to explain this to you once, Ron, so listen carefully. It’s complicated enough without your self-righteous attitude, like you’ve got a reason to be offended by this.”

“I’ve got every reason to be offended,” Ron hissed. “Ginny —”

“This has nothing to do with her and you know it,” Harry snapped. “Just admit it, Ron. You know I’d never hurt her on purpose. Ginny and I are friends.”

“You and I are friends, and look what you’ve done to me.”

Harry smiled in a satisfied sort of way. “Finally, we get to the point.” He crossed his arms over his chest and then said, “Ron, I didn’t do anything to you to make you react this way.”

Considering for a moment, Ron sat on one of the empty desks and studied Harry in silence. “Damn it, Harry, it’s Malfoy. How can you say you haven’t betrayed me? I mean, if you wanted to fuck around with another guy, which I don’t get either, but far be it for me to question that, you could have at least chosen someone that wasn’t… that hasn’t been an ass to me since the first day I met him!”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t about you. Get that through your head. I didn’t sit around thinking ‘what is the one thing I could do that would hurt my best friend? Oh, I know! Fall for Malfoy!’ Not everything’s about you. This had nothing to do with you.”

Ron looked hurt. “You’re wrong, it had everything to do with me. You never would have even started hanging around him if I had been a better friend.”

Exasperation made Harry roll his eyes. “That’s bullshit. That’s so stupidly wrong, Ron, and you know it.”

“Then why?” he snapped. “I wanted you to be with Ginny. My little sister. I thought you were worth her, Harry. But I would have understood if you hadn’t liked her because… because you fancied Dean or… or Oliver or Seamus or… I would have even supported you if you wanted to shag Neville, for gods’ sake.” He laughed in a desperate tone. “Hell, Harry, I’d have fixed you up with Percy if you wanted me to. Anyone but Malfoy.”

Harry’s voice was soft. “I don’t want anyone but Malfoy.”

“But —”

“You can’t say anything that’ll change my mind, Ron. If you can’t accept this, than it’s up to you. I’m not going to let go of this because you don’t like him.”

Ron’s eyes reflected his hurt. “You’d choose him over me?”

Gently, Harry replied, “He’s not the one making me choose, Ron.”

“I… You’d lose all of this because you like shagging Malfoy.” Ron sounded weak with disgust.

“I don’t just…shag him!” Harry snapped. “I… talk with him and… and hold his hand and kiss —” He stopped at the pained look on Ron’s face. “And it’s more than that, much more. I’d lose my friendship with you because even if I did choose you over him, Ron, I’d never trust you again because you made me choose. Either way, I’m losing you. The way I see it, it’s choose you and lose everything because in choosing you, I destroy our friendship anyway. Or letting you go and keeping what I’ve got with Draco. I don’t want to lose you, you’re my best friend. So the only way you’re going to lose me is if you choose to let me go. I’ve found that it’s easier to let others make my choices for me.” He smiled. “But this choice is yours to make, Ron.”

Ron was still looking rather pale and weak, and Harry had run out of things to say. He sighed. “I never meant for Ginny to be mixed up in this, and I didn’t mean what I said earlier about her. Let me know what you decide.”

He turned to go, walking slowly, waiting for Ron to call him back. He didn’t.

***

It was easier, telling Hermione, probably because she’d figured most of it out already. She was shocked, of course, and a little reproachful, especially when he told her how things had gone with Ron.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, her eyes wide. “Surely you wouldn’t stop being friends with Ron over this.”

“It’s not my choice,” Harry replied with a shrug. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Ron, but he knew that it was out of his hands. He wouldn’t lose Draco, not for anything.

“And Ginny?”

Harry smiled wryly. “Strangely enough, given all the things she shouted at me earlier, I think she may be more understanding than her brother.”

Hermione smiled slightly, though she still looked worried. “Do you trust him, Harry? Do you trust Malfoy? If he hurts you… If he does, I’ll curse him so badly…”

“Don’t worry, Hermione, I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t understand how it happened.”

He shrugged. “I’ll tell you someday, when I’ve got the time. But I’ve got to find Ginny, and it’s late, so I’ll talk to you later, alright? And… take care of Ron. I hope…” he trailed off and shook his head. “Never mind.”

He found Ginny in the library, where she had gone to hide after he had dragged Ron from the common room. She was staring sightlessly at a book, her eyes glazed over and her face very pale. Harry sat down across from her.

“Ginny. Hi.”

“Hello, Harry,” she said tonelessly, not looking up from her book.

Harry reached over and took the book from her. “Look at me.”

She sighed and did so, asking dryly, “What do you want?”

“To explain.”

“You tried this once already today.”

“Yeah, and you freaked out, started yelling, and ran away. So I figure the library’s the perfect place to try again as Pince’ll kill you if you start shouting. So now you’ve got to listen.”

“Talk then, Harry, but do hurry up.” She rested her head on her hand and tried to look bored.

“Right. First… about the ball.” He took a deep breath, knowing that she’d be hurt when she knew everything but determined to be honest. “I asked you because I wanted Ron to go to the ball and he said he’d only go if I asked you.”

Her eyes widened a little and her lips tightened, but Ginny didn’t say a word.

“I… he was only doing what he thought was right for you, Ginny,” Harry said quickly. “But it wasn’t fair, all the same.”

“Then why did you kiss me that night?” she snapped.

“Well… That’s where it gets…harsh. See, I didn’t. It wasn’t me.”

“Funny,” she said sarcastically. “He looked just like you.”

“Draco’s costume charm made him look just like me. It was him.” After he blurted that out, Harry flinched and waited for her reaction.

It took a few startled minutes of her just staring at him blankly, and then Ginny said slowly, “Malfoy. Malfoy pretended to be you and kissed me and…” She trailed off, frowning. Harry was rather relieved, he’d expected her to start screaming and throwing things. “No wonder you didn’t remember,” she said with a brittle laugh.

“I didn’t know he had done that until that day I got really sick. I’m sorry, it shouldn’t have happened, he was just playing around, Ginny. He’s got a twisted sense of what’s fun.”

“And yet you still like him better than me?” she asked sharply.

“Ginny,” Harry snapped. “It isn’t about you. I do like you, as a friend. It’s got nothing to do with Draco.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t comment. “What about that night you made me kiss you? That was you, wasn’t it?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah. I was… I was sort of confused.”

“I would have understood, you know,” she sighed. “If someone had just told me… I meant what I said earlier, Harry. After Halloween, you sort of scared me.” She was smiling a little painfully.

“You were never supposed to get involved in this and I never meant to hurt you. But you asked me earlier if I would take back everything with Draco if it meant that I’d never hurt you or caused these problems between me and Ron. I wouldn’t, Ginny. Not for the world.”

She studied his face solemnly and then a small smile flickered at her lips. “I wouldn’t think so, Harry,” she said. “I may not like him at all, but even I’ve noticed that you’ve been happier than ever lately. People who are lucky enough to find something like that shouldn’t ever let it go.”

Harry grinned. “I won’t. Not ever.”

She smiled and nodded, reaching over to gently push his glasses back up his nose. He hadn’t even been aware they’d slipped. “He’s really lucky, Harry, I hope he understands that.”

Laughing, Harry took her hand and squeezed it. “If he doesn’t, he will soon enough,” he said with a smirk that it took Ginny a moment to realize where she’d seen it before. On Draco’s lips.

***

The next day, Harry walked into Potions just before class started. He smiled shyly at Draco before sitting next to Ron, deliberately ignoring the glare on his best friend’s face that got nastier when he noticed the direction of Harry’s smile. Harry turned to him.

“Hello,” he said, rather stiffly, waiting for Ron’s reaction. After all, their entire future depended on Ron’s choice, whether he would turn away from Harry or not.

It appeared that Ron didn’t even know what he was going to do. His eyes narrowed and Hermione glared at him and he mumbled, “Hi.”

It was a start at least, and Harry felt a little better.

After class, it seemed to be an unspoken agreement, and both Harry and Draco took an incredibly long time packing up their things. In fact, by the time they had finished, everyone except Snape had already left and, with rather shy smiles, they left the classroom together.

“You alright, Harry?” Draco asked, as they made their way down the hall towards their next classes.

Harry frowned. “Yeah, why?”

Shrugging, Draco said, “What happened last night, with Weasley?”

“You care?” he couldn’t help being surprised.

Draco shoved him playfully. “Of course I care, you twit. I may not like him, but I don’t want him to… to hurt you.”

“Oh.” Harry considered that for a moment and then, blushing a little, he slipped his hand into Draco’s, almost experimentally.

Glancing at him sideways, Draco smirked. “Are you holding my hand, Potter?”

Harry looked rather defiant, even if his face was still red from his blush. “Yes.”

Draco laughed and kissed him quickly. “Alright. But don’t change the subject.” He tightened his hand around Harry’s. “What happened with Weasley?”

“Well, he… sort of said that I’d betrayed him and that I should be with Ginny and… if the problem is that… that I don’t like girls, I should be with…Seamus or Percy or something.” Harry shrugged.

Scowling, Draco rolled his eyes. “What did you say?”

He glanced at Draco and smiled. “That I didn’t want to be with anyone but you.”

Draco felt his face flush a little bit, just along the cheekbones, and he winced at the knowledge that Harry had the power to make him blush. He could see Harry watching him in amusement, laughing a little, and stuck his tongue out playfully, making Harry laugh even harder.

They had to part ways soon after, going to their separate classes, and they did so with a lingering kiss and a few whispering words, promising to meet up later.

In Divination that day, they were studying prophecy, and Harry found the subject very boring. After all, he didn’t believe in fate, and this was just a fancy way for crackpot old men to pretend they could predict it. Riddles, Harry didn’t like riddles. They were deliberately misleading and far too often self-fulfilling.

That’s why he was a little startled when his attention snapped away from the tower window and back to the professor. She had said Draco’s last name.

“What?” he asked suddenly, and the whole class turned to look at him, surprised. Ron rolled his eyes.

“I said, Mister Potter,” Trelawney repeated, “That some families have ancient prophecies that are passed from one generation to the next, until the time that they are fulfilled. Almost every old, pureblooded family has at least one, kept in their library somewhere. I mentioned that the Malfoys were one of them. Did you require further repetition, or did you find the rest of my lesson worth paying attention to?” She sounded quite annoyed and Harry flushed.

“Uhh, that’s good, thanks,” he mumbled, and she continued teaching. Harry glanced out of the window.

It was rather interesting, actually. Draco had never mentioned it. Then again, being from a pureblooded family and all, he probably took the ‘family prophecies’ for granted. Draco didn’t believe in fate, and his family passed prophecies from one generation to the next? It was something to tease him about, Harry decided with a smile.

And then, spoiling his light mood, he wondered what prophecies Ron’s family passed down, and was filled with the painful urge to cry. He didn’t want to lose his best friend over this.

At lunch, sitting beside Ron, Harry asked almost timidly, “Ron? Does your family have any prophecies?” He was desperate for something to talk about, not wanting to let Ron drift away.

Ron scowled and Hermione looked curious. “What are you talking about?”

“Surely you know that old, pureblooded families pass down prophecies from one generation to the next,” Ron said a little stiffly.

Hermione’s gaze became guarded. “Actually, I prefer to study more relevant matters, not what ‘pureblooded’ families do in their spare time.”

Ron rolled his eyes and turned back to his lunch, leaving Harry to explain. “We learned in Divination that they do, yeah. She mentioned the Malfoys. I just thought that maybe Ron’s family…” he was feeling decidedly miserable.

Looking compassionate, she reached over and briefly touched his hand. Ron wasn’t speaking to her either. “Well, maybe if we owl Mrs. Weasley, she could tell us?”

Dropping his spoon suddenly, Ron stood up. “‘In times of darkness and times of light, a Weasley always stands to fight,’” he recited sharply before walking away.

Hermione and Harry looked at each other, waited until Ron had left the hall, and then burst into hushed laughter. “What a ridiculous prophecy,” Harry said finally.

She grinned. “It’s more like a rhyming couplet or a family motto.”

“I think sometimes that’s what happens to the prophecies,” Harry told her. “They get adapted into family mottos, probably even worked into the family crest.”

Turning a little more solemn now, Hermione said, “Do you think Ron’ll ever talk to us again?”

“Hermione, you don’t have to do this,” Harry sighed. “It’s my battle.”

“But he’s wrong!” she said fiercely. “He’s being a hypocrite. If you and… and Malfoy—” she lowered her voice dramatically so no one could hear— “are a betrayal, then so are him and Pansy! It’s the same. He’s just worried that it’ll mean you don’t need him anymore.”

Harry studied her for a moment and then said gently, “You still like him.”

She glanced away. “Harry, I never really liked him that way all that much, don’t worry about it.”

“Still. You shouldn’t lose him as a friend over this.”

“Neither of us are losing him!” Hermione snapped. “I’m going to talk to Pansy about it, actually. As soon as I get up the nerve. I mean, she cares about Malfoy, they’re friends. And she seems to care for Ron. So I’ll tell her what a prat he’s being and see if she’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks. For everything. For not being horrified.” He smiled.

“Oh, I’m properly horrified!” she cried. “It’s Malfoy. However, I like to see you happy and he obviously makes you happy. It’s just more complicated for Ron.”

Lunch wasn’t even half over when, over at the Slytherin table, Draco stood up, causing Harry to instinctively glance up. Draco met his gaze and jerked his head towards the door, mouthing the world ‘library’. Harry smiled his understanding and started to clean up his things.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Lovely, Harry,” she teased. “Abandon me here just like Ron did.”

Glancing at her guiltily, Harry said, “I can stay if you want.”

“Oh, go on, I suppose Malfoy’s calling,” she said, smirking a little. “Besides, I’ve got some things to talk to Ginny about.”

Harry nodded, flashed a grateful grin, and hurried from the room. Ron was waiting just outside the hall. “Harry,” he said. “Malfoy just left, so I assumed you’d be out soon as well.”

That instantly put Harry on the defensive, and he crossed his arms over his chest. “What is it?”

“I…” Ron took a deep breath. “I don’t think I can do this, Harry. This, I mean. Just thinking about it makes me sick.”

Harry felt stung, but struggled not to show it. “Is the problem,” he said, his voice a little thick, “That it’s a guy, or is it that it’s Draco?”

“I could handle the other guy,” Ron admitted in a tiny voice. “And I tried, Harry, but… I can’t… can’t stand it! I can’t…”

Harry tried to work up a righteous fury. He tried to shout. He tried, as he’d seen Draco do a thousand times, to call up a protective layer of cold distain. He couldn’t, however. All he could do was stare at Ron’s eyes, where a fine sheen of tears destroyed any chance he had of anger.

Ron didn’t want this as much as Harry didn’t want it.

It was that fact alone that hurt the most, and Harry took a stumbling step backwards, away from Ron, nearly blinded with pain. Ron didn’t want it, meaning he’d tried to see past it, and couldn’t. He wasn’t willing to let Harry go over this, but he was doing it all the same. Over nothing! It shouldn’t matter! It shouldn’t mean anything to Ron, just as Ron and Pansy meant nothing to Harry.

Harry was suddenly quite sure that he was about to cry, and he turned away hurriedly.

“Harry,” Ron called gently, before Harry could get more than two steps away. “The Malfoy prophecy… I’d look into it, if I were you.”

Harry stiffened and said harshly, “That, Weasley, is no longer your concern.”

He walked away, his legs jerking like they were made out of wood. Puppet legs pulled by some careless puppeteer.

The library wasn’t far and he was glad, pushing through the doors and heading blindly towards the table farthest from the light, the table where he’d eaten cherries out of Draco’s hand.

Draco was waiting, and he glanced up with a smile. It quickly faded, however, when Harry collapsed in the chair beside him and folded his arms on the table, burying his face.

“Harry,” Draco said gently, one hand awkwardly on Harry’s back. “What is it?”

Harry mumbled a few words, not trusting himself to speak more than that without bursting into tears.

“C’mon, Potter,” was the reply, Draco taking his hand and tugging. “The library is no place for this.” Already, a few Ravenclaws were staring in shock.

Harry lifted his head and Draco winced at his paleness, his dark, shocked eyes. “C’mon,” he said again, very gently, and Harry let himself be pulled to his feet and guided out the door.

Draco pulled him down the hall and into an empty classroom. “Right then,” he said, business-like now. He didn’t quite know how to deal with this new fragile Harry, and figured detachment was the best option.

With a low growl, Harry started pacing, ranting out loud. “He’s such a stupid bastard,” he said, throwing up his hands and stalking around the room. Draco watched him worriedly. “Thinking that you can just let a six-year friendship go over something like this. It shouldn’t matter to him. I didn’t betray him! I would never… This isn’t a betrayal of him, it’s got nothing to do with him! Why doesn’t he see that?”

“I’m assuming,” Draco said, when Harry paused for a breath, “That you’re talking about Weasley? What’s he done now?”

Harry stopped his pacing and turned to face Draco, looking lost again. “He… he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore,” he said in a lost tone, his voice breaking and eyes shining unnaturally. He choked on something that could have been tears, and Draco saw the way he was valiantly trying to hold them back.

“Harry,” he said gently, stepping closer. He grabbed Harry by the shoulders and wrapped his arm around them, having abandoned the business-like option and opting for following his instincts. “Harry, I’m sorry.”

Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck and took a deep breath, closing his eyes and letting Draco hold him. He’d been a little nervous, not quite knowing how Draco would react to him falling apart this way, and startled when Draco had held him. As if he cared about him, hurt when he hurt, cried when he cried. Harry wondered vaguely if maybe Draco did. They’d never exactly discussed it.

“Are you alright?” Draco whispered, his breath ruffling Harry’s hair.

Harry nodded and said, “Just don’t let go yet. No one’s ever…” he trailed off and Draco smiled a little, tightening his hold. No one had ever held him like that either, and he wondered if it felt as good to be held as it did to hold.

Harry didn’t cry, the urge to cry had disappeared when Draco had wrapped his arms around him.

***

That night, unable to sleep, Harry took his invisibility cloak and crept out of Gryffindor tower. He made his way to the library, guilt nearly making him change his mind and return to bed. However, he still slipped into the library, holding a lantern, and quickly scanning the titles, not quite sure what he was looking for. He finally selected ‘The Old Families: A History of Aristocracy in Wizarding’. Slipping it off the shelf, he made his way over to a table in the back and flipped to the glossary. Malfoy was on page 56.

It was basically boring information on the family founders, the family tree, the last publicized bank holdings, a listing of all the real estate they owned, a few words on some important historical things they had taken part in, and then, as a caption under a picture that was enchanted to show the current generation of Malfoys, the Family Prophecy.

Harry read it in a whisper. “‘The bearer of light shall carry to the feet of the Serpent lord, a child. That child shall deliver into the hands of the Dark One his own Destruction, choose life over love, and become His loyalist disciple.’”

Frowning, Harry carefully copied it out word for word, and folded it, slipping it in his pocket.

“Life over love?” he whispered. “The Serpent lord, that must be Voldemort. Maybe this already happened…” he trailed off. “Or is going to happen.”

Intensely uneasy, Harry returned the book to it’s shelf and started back to Gryffindor tower. He wasn’t paying particular attention and walked right into someone he hadn’t even seen, knocking his invisibility cloak to the floor.

“Harry!” Draco cried with a smile. “I snuck through the window to Gryffindor tower and you weren’t there so thought you’d be in the library or the kitchen or something.”

Harry returned the smile warily. “What are you doing up so late?”

“I could ask the same as you. Couldn’t sleep.” He was holding a broomstick, and Harry glanced at it, confused. “I was going flying,” Draco explained. He grinned. “Wanted to know if you wanted to come with me. I could show you some real flying, not like Quidditch.”

“Quidditch is real flying,” Harry argued, even as he pulled out his wand. “Accio Firebolt.”

“If you think that, you’ve lived an incredibly sheltered life,” Draco said with a confident grin.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Cupboard under the stairs, remember?” he said dryly.

His Firebolt appeared and he caught it out of the air. “Let’s go then,” Draco said, leading the way.

It was dark, still, and very cold. Draco was on his broomstick and in the air in seconds. Following more slowly, Harry watched Draco fly gracefully for a few moments in awe, and then, determined to show him up, took to the skies as well.

He was a natural flyer, but Draco was more practiced, and was soon teaching Harry techniques the other boy had never even heard of.

“You realize,” he said, laughing, “that this’ll make it even easier for me to beat you at Quidditch.”

“It hasn’t helped me beat you yet; it’s not very useful, actually,” Draco admitted, turning an easy backwards loop in the air.

Harry studied the move and tried to duplicate it, laughing breathlessly as he gracelessly pulled out of the awkward, lopsided move. “I’m not very good anyway.”

“Practice,” Draco said with a shrug.

They flew until Harry’s fingers, ears, and nose were numb, and then they went back inside, shivering and talking softly.

It was nearly dawn and they kissed hurriedly, lips frozen and awkward. Harry giggled as he pulled away and smiled, hurrying off to Gryffindor Tower.

***

Harry had forgotten all about the prophecy by morning, until he found it in his pocket. Deciding to ask Hermione what she thought it meant, he tucked it inside his Potions text and went down for breakfast.

Secretly relieved to see that Ron wasn’t there, Harry sat next to Hermione, pulling the prophecy out of his book. “I found this in the library,” he said. “It’s the Malfoy family prophecy, what do you think it means?”

She read it over quickly and frowned. “I’m not sure, really. That’s why I don’t like Divination, Harry, it’s not an exact science. It could mean any number of things, really. I’d suggest you ask your professor, but Trelawney’s an unreliable old bat who’s never given a true prophecy in her life.”

“Not true,” Harry said. “Once she did.”

Hermione snorted and started a long lecture on the joys of Arithmancy, which Harry, having heard it all before, only caught a few highlights of.

After breakfast, Harry and Hermione stood to go to Potions together. Draco met them at the door, with a frosty smile for her.

“I’ll walk with you,” he said, not asking permission. He fell into step beside Harry, who cast him a rather adoring, smitten smile. Upon seeing that smile, Hermione rolled her eyes and let go of the indignation she’d felt at his interruption.

Ron had gone to Potions early with Pansy, and he was sitting in Draco’s spot. Glaring furiously at him, Draco walked past in silence, taking Ron’s abandoned seat by Harry. He wasn’t angry that Ron had taken his spot, he was rather pleased at the excuse to sit beside Harry. He’d never forgive Weasley, however, for hurting Harry. Never.

The strange thing, Harry realized later that class as he, Hermione, and Draco worked together on their Potions assignment, was that Hermione and Draco got on quite well when they stopped trying to antagonize each other. They almost seemed to enjoy the challenge of, for the first time, meeting someone with enough knowledge of Potions to challenge them in class. An almost friendly and certainly relaxed conversation about the potion they were brewing, in which both seemed determined to show they knew more, took place, and Harry was left to watch as most of the information went straight over his head. Draco would smirk challengingly at her and she’d smile smugly in return.

It was a relief, at least, that Draco didn’t say anything hurtful to her all through Potions. He was trying, as was Hermione. If only Ron would do the same.

At the end of class, Harry was cleaning up when he accidentally knocked his Potions text to the floor. He scooped it up quickly and piled it with his things, helping Hermione rinse out the cauldron. When he turned back around, Draco was standing very still, a strange look on his face. He was holding a slip of parchment in his hand.

“Why didn’t you just ask?” he said, looking at Harry strangely.

Harry winced. It was the prophecy, and he took it gently, glancing at Hermione, who nodded and left the classroom quickly with the other students.

“I was just curious,” Harry told him. “We learned about family prophecies in Divination and your family was mentioned and Ron said I should —”

“Weasley,” Draco spat. “He told you to look it up, did he?”

“Yes.” Harry studied Draco’s face worriedly. “But I don’t even know what it means, Draco! I didn’t mean to make you angry, I just —”

“Don’t know what it means?” Draco growled, snatching the paper back. “‘Bearer of light’,” he read. “My father. Lucius means ‘bearer of light’. The Serpent Lord is Voldemort of course. The child is me.”

“Your father is going to give you to Voldemort,” Harry whispered.

“And I shall become his loyalist disciple,” Draco shrugged.

“Choose life over love.”

“I know, Potter,” Draco snapped. “I’ve read the prophecy.”

Harry’s eyes widened painfully and he struggled to think up something to say. To think that Draco had known all along of the prophecy, was so accepting of it… accepting of the fact that he would become a Death Eater, that he would choose that over love… Harry’s love.

Draco was looking rather defiant, but before he could speak, Snape drawled, “Is there a problem?”

“No, sir,” Draco said quietly, watching the thousands of emotions flickering in Harry’s eyes. Hurt, doubt, fear…

“Then I suggest you hurry to your next class,” Snape said dryly.

“I’m going to be late,” Harry mumbled, scooping up his books and hurrying from the room.

Draco swore, grabbed his own books, and hurrying after him. “Harry!” he called, running down the hall. “Harry, wait!”

Pausing just before a staircase, Harry turned. “What?” he asked warily.

“You can’t know what it means, Harry. The whole point of prophecy is that you don’t know what it’s really talking about until after it happens. So whatever you’re thinking it means, it’s probably wrong.”

“It says you’ll leave me,” Harry said thickly.

“Shit, Harry, you think after all the shit I’ve gone through just to have you, I’d willingly leave you?”

“It’s in the prophecy! It’s fate!”

“I don’t believe in fate, remember?”

“And no wonder, with a fate like this.” Harry smiled finally, reluctantly, and Draco was relieved to see it.

“Forget the family prophecy, Harry. I’ve done a fine job of forgetting it my whole life.”

Harry nodded and smiled distractedly. “I’ll try. But I’ve got to go. Trelawney will kill me herself if I’m late again, and trust me, she knows some interesting means of death.”

Draco laughed and Harry hurried up the stairs to Divination.

***

The prophecy was always a nagging worry in the back of Harry’s mind, as was the situation with Ron, but over the next few days, Draco managed to drive most of his thoughts on both topics away. Harry had never laughed so much as when Draco teased him, never blushed so much as when Draco touched him and he would never remember a happier time than that. Carefree, without scars, nothing but forever to look forward to because that’s all Draco seemed to promise every time he smiled at him.

Being outdoors in any season was something Harry had learned to treasure, especially after a childhood of living in a cupboard. Small spaces made him feel rather claustrophobic, so he was lucky to have a companion in Draco. Hermione and Ron didn’t much like the snow or cold and, in winters past, Harry would spend his free time outside, alone. Now he had Draco with him. Before, he’d use this time alone to think, and he’d always rather thought that he’d resent any intrusion. Now had he been alone, he would just have thought of Draco anyway, and he’d really prefer to look at, touch, or kiss him, so he didn’t much mind the company. In fact, he loved it. Each day, he’d find at least an hour, most times more, to walk around the lake with Draco, always taking a different path so it didn’t seem routine. After all, neither liked routine.

As for Draco… well, quite simply, while he found snow pretty in a purely aesthetic sense, when admired from indoors, he absolutely loathed the way it made his cheeks red (destroying his lovely Malfoy complexion), and the way it inevitably gave him the sniffles (due to a weak constitution inherited from his mother). However, he willingly went out daily with Harry, if only because (though he’d never admit it), he found the other boy adorable with a cold-reddened face and snow on his lashes. He also was quite entranced (entranced? Entranced?) by the way Harry always smiled as if he couldn’t help it whenever Draco complained of the cold.

He was ‘smitten’, as his mother would have said. Draco Malfoy, smitten with The Boy Who Lived. Harry-Golden-Boy-Potter.

His father would kill him!

His thoughts had trailed down this path one day in mid-December, and he scowled. Harry didn’t notice, he was chatting on brightly (his wistful, pensive depressions came less and less now). Draco leapt easily over a snow-covered log, turning and reaching out automatically to catch Harry as he gracelessly tried to do the same. Harry tripped on the log and stumbled straight into Draco, his mittened hands clinging to Draco’s shoulders. His scowl easing somewhat at the way Harry had fallen so easily against his chest, Draco teased, “Clumsy.”

Harry flushed and smiled, interrupting what had been a long, drawn out story, to mumble his thanks. Draco didn’t particularly mind that the narrative had been interrupted, he hadn’t really been listening. He didn’t care what Harry said, as long as he got to hear his voice.

Slipping his hand into Draco’s, Harry walked beside him in silence for a while, approaching the rockier side of the lake.

Inevitably taking up his narrative again, Harry talked for a few minutes more before he finally sucked in a deep breath and said, “And that’s when I decided that the best option would be to just come out and ask you.”

Draco smirked, careful not to let Harry see it, and said, “Ask me what?”

Stopping suddenly and turning towards him, Harry licked his lips nervously. Draco prepared himself for any number of ridiculous questions, from confessions of lurid fantasies to strange diseases.

In a way, Harry’s question was a perverse mixture of both.

“Do you love me?”

Draco, in his defense, had been rather lost in musing thoughts about his father and what his reaction would be if he knew about Harry. His eyes glazed over blankly and he said without thought, “Am I supposed to?”

Harry reacted as though he’d been burned and snatched his hand away. The motion threw him off balance and he stumbled, slipping in the snow and falling over, sliding down a small, snow-covered hill.

“Harry!” Draco cried, slipping down after him. “Are you alright?”

A little dazed, Harry blinked up at him, humiliated to feel his eyes welling up with tears. “I hurt my back,” he said lamely, in an attempt to explain them away.

Draco fell to his knees beside him and said very gently, “Harry, I didn’t mean it like that.”

Harry glanced away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You surprised me, that’s all.”

Harry let out a frustrated breath that misted in the air, waiting about thirty seconds before asking, “Well? Have I given you enough time to consider it? It’s not a surprise now. Do you?”

“What do you think?” Draco asked, growing a little irritated. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“I think you’re changing the subject. It’s alright if you don’t, I mean… it’s not like I…love you or anything.” Harry ran a mittened hand through his hair and pretended to find the snow crystallized on the bare tree branches all around fascinating. He was still sprawled on his back in the snow, Draco kneeling beside him.

Draco studied him for a long moment, his irritation replaced with mild amusement as he watched Harry, who was very aware of his stare, slowly turn red. “You don’t?” he asked him quietly. “You don’t love me?”

Embarrassed at having gotten himself into this difficult situation in the first place, Harry reacted angrily, snapping, “How am I supposed to know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t know what the hell this is! Obviously it’s not love, because it’s a rule somewhere that love has to be returned.”

“It’s not.”

“Not love?”

“Not a rule. Sometimes you can love someone who doesn’t love you back.”

Harry snarled. “Oh, lovely, thanks for clearing that up for me, Draco.”

Smiling faintly, Draco shook his head. “But you don’t, Harry.”

Frustration had made him lose track of the conversation. “I don’t what?” he snapped. “I know I don’t love you.”

“No, you don’t love someone who doesn’t love you back.”

Harry sat up quickly, buried his face in his hands, and shouted, “Will you stop talking in circles, Draco? I have no idea what you’re going on about this time, you do it on purpose, I know you do! You probably stay up all night thinking up ways to drive me completely out of my mind!”

Laughing, Draco fell back into the snow, lying beside the imprint Harry had made and suddenly feeling lighter than he had in weeks, which was amazing to him as the last few weeks had been the lightest of his life. He hadn’t been sure how to define what he felt for Harry until that moment, when Harry had asked him if he loved him, and now he could only wonder at how he could have been so blind.

If this wasn’t love, he didn’t know what was.

“Harry,” he called, grabbing Harry’s hand and tugging until Harry weakly let himself be pulled back into the snow. “Shut up.” Draco was grinning wildly, crookedly, and Harry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I don’t like it when you smile like that,” he said after a moment.

“Like what?” Draco asked, fighting the embarrassing urge to giggle.

“Like you’re drunk. Or losing your mind. Either way, now is not the time. I’m trying to have an intelligent discussion with you.”

Harry was glaring up at the clear blue sky, gritting his teeth in annoyance, and Draco studied his profile for a long moment, his lopsided smile still firmly in place. Finally, when he grew tired of Harry pretending he didn’t notice him staring, Draco slipped his hand out of his glove and reached up, his fingers touching Harry’s cheek lightly. The sudden shock of it, combined with the beckoning heat in Draco’s hands, caused Harry to slowly turn to look at him, finally letting him see deep insecurities underneath his anger and annoyance.

“How could I not?” Draco said quietly, his smile gone now and his expression very solemn.

“Not lose your mind?” Harry whispered.

A fleeting smile twisted one side of Draco’s mouth as he slowly shook his head. “Not love you.”

Harry blinked twice, quickly, and opened his lips to ask another question, but Draco didn’t let him. He crossed the distance between them quickly, gently brushing his lips across Harry’s, their breath mingling as he then kissed Harry’s nose, his cheek, and his forehead. He was grinning again when he pulled away.

His kisses had stolen Harry’s words almost as effectively as Draco’s confession had stolen his breath.

Lying that way for a long time, there didn’t seem the need for any more words. Everything that needed to be said was being said without them, in the way Draco’s fingers stroked Harry’s face, the way Harry couldn’t look away from his eyes.

Finally, Harry glanced away and whispered, “Your hand’s going to freeze.”

“It’s fine.”

Harry reached up and took Draco’s hand, pulling it off his face and Draco curled his numb fingers around Harry’s hand. Smiling a little shyly, Harry brought Draco’s hands to his mouth and brushed his lips against his knuckles.

“You were wrong before,” he whispered against Draco’s hand.

“I’m never wrong,” Draco replied with a smile.

“You were,” Harry insisted.

“When?”

“When you said I didn’t own you.” Harry smiled slowly, wickedly, as he watched Draco’s eyes widen a little and his lips twitch in a smile. “You’re mine, you know you are, admit it.”

“Only because I want to be,” Draco countered with a smirk, and Harry rolled his eyes, still smiling.

“And I fought so hard against being yours,” he scoffed sarcastically.

“Six years.”

“Shut up.” Harry laughed, sitting up and glancing back down at Draco. “Your nose is red and at this rate, you’ll be sniffling for a week. We should go in.”

Draco wanted to argue, loathing to have Harry point out any weakness in his character or physical appearance (and to him, a red nose was definitely a weakness), but he let Harry pull him to his feet anyway. They started back to Hogwarts together in comfortable silence, and Draco put his glove back on and then took Harry’s hand.

It started snowing when they were just leaving the rocky terrain around the lake and Harry let go of Draco’s hand and, laughing over his shoulder, shouted, “Race you back!”

“You little shit,” Draco swore, before taking off after him.

Despite being taller, Harry’s legs were shorter and Draco easily caught up just outside the doors, grabbing the back of Harry’s cloak and tugging sharply enough to make him stumble, swearing. Laughing, Draco pushed past him, the first to spill into the entrance hall, and then he reached back through the doors, caught Harry by the front of his robes and jerked him inside as well, letting the door swing shut behind him. He kissed him almost lazily while the snow melted off them both and left puddles all over the floor.

11

Where does the wound begin?
In a closetful of toys,
Or a childhood of faceless fathers?
You never let them in
They were only girls and boys
But you know that it's too late to bother now
And if you try to hard to ask yourself that scary question
We all know you'll hide again
You'll just turn your head and sell your soul away
--Matt Caplan, September

Things had gotten remarkably complicated for Hermione when Harry had decided to fall for Malfoy. For one, she was worried about Ginny, who seemed to have withdrawn from her, Ron, and certainly Harry, since he had told her. A perfectly understandable reaction, of course, except she had no one to withdraw to. She’d never gotten on well with her own year. Then there was Ron, of course, who was proving to be incredibly thick-headed and stubborn. She had accepted him wanting to be with Pansy though that hurt; why couldn’t he accept Harry’s decision? Didn’t he understand that accepting Harry’s decision didn’t automatically mean he had to accept Malfoy? Just like Hermione didn’t have to accept Pansy.

She sighed at that thought, and glanced over at the Slytherin table where Pansy sat beside Malfoy. It was lunch, and Ron hadn’t bothered to show up for it. Harry was sitting with Seamus, Ginny was sitting alone, and Hermione was standing in the doorway, trying to decide what she could do about this mess Harry had created.

Today would be her last chance until after Christmas as the holidays began the next day and she and Pansy were both leaving early in the morning.

Tightening her hands on the Arithmancy book she’d brought to study after lunch, she screwed up all her courage and strode purposefully over to the Slytherin table.

It was Malfoy who turned towards her first. “Is Harry —”

“He’s fine,” she said, glancing at Pansy, who hadn’t bothered to turn. “I actually wanted to talk to her.”

Malfoy glanced at Pansy, rolled his eyes, and elbowed her. “What?” she snapped, before seeing Hermione standing there. “Oh. Granger. Hi.” She smiled weakly, rubbing her side and shooting a furious glance at Malfoy.

“I was wondering if we could talk,” Hermione said.

“Why?” Pansy asked rudely.

She blinked. “Umm, it’s rather private.”

“I don’t know, I’m rather busy.”

“Shut up, Pansy,” Malfoy snapped, immediately increasing Hermione’s respect for him. “Just go with her, it’s got to be important if she’s willing to talk to you about it.”

Pansy scowled but still got out and stalked out of the hall, leaving Hermione to flash Malfoy a distracted, thankful smile, and then hurry after her.

When she finally caught up, Pansy was standing with her arms crossed over her chest, scowling furiously. “What?” she snapped.

“It’s about Ron.”

“What about him?”

Hermione paused and considered her next words delicately. Before she could think of how to say it, Pansy rolled her eyes and said, “Don’t tell me you fancy him.”

Her eyes widened and she stammered, “W-what?”

“He’d never have anything to do with a nasty-looking girl like you!”

“He’s my best friend!” she said indignantly.

Pansy laughed. “That’s what you think.”

“Will you shut up?” Hermione growled suddenly. “This has nothing to do with that, that isn’t the issue here. The issue is that Ron is being a complete prat to Harry —”

She snickered. “Why should I care?”

“Are you blind? Because Harry is now intimately connected to Malfoy, you stupid girl. Even you can’t be so blind as to not have seen it. The first thing he asked me today was if Harry was alright. He’s the first person Harry notices in a room. When Harry’s hurt, Malfoy’s going to notice, and right now, he is very hurt. Ron hurt him. I don’t know Malfoy well, but he certainly seems the type to be very protective. Do you want him to hurt Ron?”

Pansy considered for a moment, and then her shoulders slumped and she glared balefully. “No. I don’t want Draco to hurt Ron.”

“Then talk to Ron. Make him stop being so stubborn. You could lose him, Pansy. You’re friends with Malfoy, Ron might pull away from you because of that association. He’s just as hurt as Harry is.”

Shaking her head slowly, Pansy smiled rather painfully. “The only way I could lose him is if you decided to take him from me. Even I can see that.”

“What are you talking about?” Hermione whispered.

“Apparently I’m not the only blind one here.” She smiled. “But I’ll talk to him. I don’t want Draco hurt, and if talking to Ron makes that less likely, then I’ll be happy to do it.”

Hermione was still staring at her suspiciously. “What did you mean about —”

“Listen, Granger,” Pansy interrupted, nearly managing to sound bored. “I’ll talk to Ron, if the subject comes up. I don’t want Draco hurt by this thing with Potter, and I will do what I can to prevent that if only because if Potter does hurt him, I’ll have to kill him, and Ron’ll probably frown on that. As for this little discussion…Quite honestly, it’s boring. So unless you’ve got something particularly interesting to say, I’d quit now if I were you.”

“No,” Hermione stammered. “I… just wanted to talk to you about Harry and Malfoy.”

Pansy nodded once and walked away, leaving Hermione to gape after her, astounded at her rudeness.

“What on earth does he see in her?” she grumbled out loud. Probably the same thing Harry saw in Malfoy.

***

In Pansy’s defense, she did try talking to Ron about his stubbornness regarding Draco and Harry’s relationship. However, given that it was their last night together until after Christmas, the last thing Ron wanted to do was talk about Harry, and Pansy finally gave up with a sigh, resolving to talk to him about it tomorrow or maybe owl him later… After all, he had much more pleasant things in mind to do on their last night, and Pansy was only too happy to agree. Ron didn’t make it back to his own bed that night. It was lucky for him that he didn’t.

The promise of pumpkin juice and chocolate frogs is what lured Harry to accept Draco’s idea of a celebration of the beginning of the holidays and the last day of class. To make matters all the more intriguing, Draco had decided to have their celebration after hours, in the Great Hall, all alone, because any situation is made all the more exciting when given the added benefit of possible punishment if caught. So after all the other students had retired to their respective common rooms or Shag Spots of Choice, Harry donned his invisibility cloak and snuck into the Great Hall.

He got there before Draco and had a few moments to sit on the edge of the Gryffindor table (it felt wrong enough to be in the Great Hall alone in the dark, let alone to sit at another table) and consider how creepy the hall was when empty and dark. The ceiling shone with rolling, dark purple clouds and the occasional glimpse of a star or two between them, so the only light was the flickering, almost under-water quality of that false star light. Shadows seemed to dance like phantoms and that thought made Harry shiver as he fervently hoped that Peeves and the other ghosts would find other students to bother that night. The Great Hall was creepy enough without the undead floating around.

The silence was broken with the soft creak of the door, and Harry leapt off the table and spun around nervously. He was incredibly relieved when he saw it was Draco.

“Where’ve you been?” he hissed, gathering up his cloak.

Draco grinned. “Scared, Potter? I was in the kitchens, getting the pumpkin juice. C’mon.”

He walked past Harry and climbed the three steps up to the High Table.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked nervously.

“I thought it would be fun to celebrate up here,” Draco replied, glancing over his shoulder with a cocky grin. “That is, unless you’re scared.”

“Scared? Yeah, right,” Harry mumbled, climbing up onto the platform. Draco gracefully hopped up onto the table, crossing his legs and setting a bunch of frogs and a jug of juice down. He gestured with an impatient jerk of his head.

“C’mon, get up here.”

“It just doesn’t seem right,” Harry protested weakly, even as he climbed onto the table. It shone like ice and looked like it had just been polished.

Draco tossed him a frog and went about pouring the drinks, but Harry only glanced around nervously. “Why do we have to celebrate in here?” he whispered.

“Because,” Draco replied in a voice Harry was sure he’d made louder than normal on purpose. “I like living dangerously. Besides, who would come in here?”

Relaxing just a little bit, Harry smiled and took a sip of his juice. It was alright, he decided. Rather romantic, with the swiftly moving clouds and occasional glimpses of stars.

They ate all the chocolate frogs and drank most the juice and by the time they had finished, Harry had relaxed enough to have sprawled out on his back on the table, watching the clouds swirl above. Draco lay beside him, and they were silent for a long time.

Harry had been thinking of his parents. When everyone left to go home and visit their families, it invariably left him wondering about his, missing his. Draco sensed his mood and glanced over at him worriedly, unsure of what to say.

“Harry,” he said finally, gently. He wasn’t sure if it was a trick of the light or what, but Harry’s eyes seemed to be shining with tears.

“Hmm?” He didn’t pull his eyes away from the ceiling.

“Are you alright?”

“I was just thinking, that’s all,” Harry said softly.

“About what?”

It was silent for a long time, and Draco had almost given up on Harry ever answering when the other boy finally said, “If you had to die, would you rather die fast, suddenly, with no warning and no time to say good-bye, or would you rather know the day you were going to die and how?”

“Well,” Draco said slowly, worried more about why Harry’s train of thought had taken this path than the actual question. “Fast, I suppose.”

Harry snapped his head around to look at him now. “Why? Why fast? You wouldn’t have time to say good-bye.”

“Because I couldn’t imagine waking up each day and thinking to myself that it was one of the last days I’d ever wake up. I’d drive myself mad long before I actually died. I’d be…terrified.” Only to Harry would Draco ever have admitted such a weakness as fear.

Smiling a little and looking back up at the sky, Harry whispered, “I wouldn’t be scared. As long as you were there to hold my hand each morning, I wouldn’t be scared. And I’d make sure that everyone I loved would be taken care of and that they’d know that I loved them.”

Draco propped himself up on one elbow, one hand reaching over to pull Harry’s glasses off and set them aside so he could see his eyes without the reflection of the sky on his lenses. “Harry,” he admonished gently. “Your parents loved you, whether they had a chance to say good-bye or not.”

Swallowing heavily, Harry nodded. “I know.”

He didn’t know what else to say, so Draco slid closer, lying beside Harry with his head on the other boy’s shoulder, one of his arms across his chest, pulling him closer, his face pressed into Harry’s neck.

They lay that way for a long time before Harry shifted and turned a little, so that he’d buried his face in Draco’s chest. When he spoke, his voice was muffled. “I just wish I had someone to go home to for the holidays.”

“You may not have anyone to go home to, Harry, but now you’ve got someone to stay for.”

Harry lifted his head and smiled. “You.”

“Who else?”

“Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Dumbledore —”

“Shut up.”

They smiled at each other and Harry sighed, feeling a little better and laying his head back down, where it was cushioned on Draco’s arm. “Tell me about your father,” he said sleepily, closing his eyes.

“There’s nothing really to tell,” Draco replied, feeling a little defensive.

“There has to be,” Harry insisted. “You define everything you are by what your father would approve of and what he’d frown on. Makes me wonder what he’d think of this.”

Draco smiled a little. “I don’t know, honestly. He doesn’t pay much attention to me, he probably would only care because you were…” He trailed off uncertainly.

“Harry Potter.”

“Yeah.” Draco tightened his arm around Harry possessively. “Someday he’ll notice though,” he said quietly. “I’ll make him notice.”

Disturbed, he pulled away a little. “What if the only way to make him notice is to become Voldemort’s follower?”

“You’re thinking about the prophecy again, I told you to stop,” Draco said with a frown. “Besides, my father thinks I’m too weak for that. He sends me away whenever he knows Voldemort will be near.”

“You’ve seen him? Voldemort?”

“Once or twice,” Draco evaded, pulling Harry close again.

Harry didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure if he had the right to question Draco on this, who had never questioned him on Voldemort or Dumbledore or any of it. He nestled closer and closed his eyes. “Don’t leave me to join him,” he said quietly.

“I wouldn’t,” Draco said with a smile. “Not for the world. Besides. He insists entirely too much on giving orders. Maybe my father delights in taking them, but I don’t. It’s always been about impressing my father, not Voldemort. I couldn’t care less about him, all he’s done is made my father weak.”

“See?” Harry said, relieved at Draco’s words. “You do define yourself by your father.”

“No. I want to be everything my father is but stronger. My father’s nothing more than Voldemort’s puppet. He’s a strong man, my father, and whenever Voldemort isn’t around, you can see it in the way he walks and everything. But the instant Voldemort is near, he’s weak. Terrified.”

“Why does he follow him if he’s terrified?”

“Some people get off on fear, I suppose. That’s all I can think of. It used to drive me mad a few years ago when Voldemort came back, that my father who rarely noticed me would be so inclined to chase after Voldemort and beg for forgiveness for something he hadn’t really done, that sort of thing. That when I was a kid, he never had time for me, until I was six and I started repeating to him everything I’d ever heard him say about Voldemort and the cause. Then he finally paid attention to me. I remember the first time I said ‘Mudbloods should die’, it was at a dinner party, and he looked at me with absolute terror in his eyes for a second, while all his friends laughed, and then he blinked and it was gone and he was smiling at me. So I kept doing it.” He shrugged, smiling faintly.

“You were cruel to Hermione for seven years because you wanted attention from your father,” Harry said dully, offended on her behalf but too disgusted to react.

“You wouldn’t understand,” said Draco, very quietly. “You never had a father to impress.”

Harry did react to that, jerking away as fast as he could and sitting up, staring at Draco in shock. He wasn’t wearing his glasses and couldn’t see Draco’s expression, but he didn’t care. Fury and hurt were mixing together inside of him and making him shake. “I don’t,” he admitted, voice trembling. “You’re right. I haven’t got a father to impress. He was killed by the creature your father supports, the same creature you support to impress that father. So that makes it okay, Draco. Support him, because I haven’t got one so that means I don’t understand the pressure of trying to impress a father. So that makes it alright.”

“Harry.” Draco reached out to touch his arm.

“Don’t,” Harry snarled, flinching away.

“This is why we’ve both avoided this whole subject all this time,” Draco finally said, sighing. “Just let it go.”

“Let it go? How am I supposed to let the death of my parents go?”

“I didn’t mean it like that! I was just pointing out a fact, Harry, I wasn’t saying that it was alright or that I’m right because your father’s dead! That’s ridiculous! I was just saying that you haven’t got a father, you wouldn’t understand!”

“And you wouldn’t understand just how much I’d give up so I could understand!” Harry shouted, not caring if anyone heard. “My father’s dead, Draco! Don’t you get it? Maybe you’ve got some bitter love/hate thing going with yours, but you’ve still got a lot more than I ever had. Every time you look at him and see that his eyes are the same colour, you know where you got yours from! And you did, I’ve seen. You have his eyes, Draco. I’m told I’ve got my mothers, but I’ll never know for sure, because all I’ve got is a few photos and the memory of seeing her reflected back to me in a mirror! So you can tell me my father’s dead in an effort to make me understand how hard your life is all you like, but I already know. How could I not know that I’ll never understand what it is to have a father?”

“Harry,” Draco said quietly. “Harry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Swallowing thickly, Harry held his breath for a long moment, closing his eyes. “I know,” he said finally. Years of wondering what it would be like to have a father and a mother, all the pain and bitterness of not knowing, it was all swirling inside him, threatening to choke him, and he knew he was about to break. He just didn’t know if it would bring with it angry shouting or painful crying. Suddenly both seemed the same.

“Harry…” Draco called softly, pleadingly. “Stop it, you’ve got to breathe.”

Still holding his breath and trying to stop the break he could feel coming, Harry shot him a desperate look, whimpering low in his throat.

Draco stared in shock at his eyes. They’d nearly turned black with the force of his emotions, and he’d never seen eyes like that, so full of hatred and pain. For a long moment, he froze, not sure of what to do, and then Harry let out the breath he’d been holding, his entire body shaking with the force of it. He collapsed forward and Draco was there to catch him.

“You don’t think,” Draco said very quietly, after a few moments had gone by and Harry was still clinging to him, silent except for the occasional shaky breath that sounded like a sob, though he wasn’t crying, “that if your father could see you now, he wouldn’t be impressed, Harry? How could he not be impressed?”

“If that’s the standard by which we’re judging our fathers’ impressions of us,” Harry said finally, his voice stronger than Draco thought it would be, “then your father’s got to be proud of you too.”

Draco laughed a little, and Harry lifted his head, his hands still braced on Draco’s shoulders. His eyes weren’t so dark now, they were familiar and very bright green, though still shining with tears. He was smiling, however, just a little bit, and he shifted a little so he was kneeling in front of Draco, rather than collapsed against him.

“We’re both alright,” he said, tracing Draco’s features in the dim starlight. “Despite everything.”

Draco smiled and bit one of his fingers lightly. “I think so,” he agreed.

“I know it,” Harry whispered, leaning forward and brushing his lips against Draco’s. He moved to pull away and Draco shook his head, a soft growl in the back of his throat. One hand lifted to Harry’s cheek, cupping it and pulling him close again as Draco kissed him very gently, begging for forgiveness the way he couldn’t in words. Harry didn’t respond, though he didn’t pull away and his eyes slowly closed. Growing more insistent, Draco traced his tongue along Harry’s bottom lip before biting it lightly, his growl turning into something more like a whimper, and Harry suddenly realized that Draco’s hands were shaking.

“Shit,” he whispered against Draco’s lips, reaching up to take Draco’s hands in his, holding them tightly. “I’m sorry.”

Draco pulled back just a little, laughing weakly. “What are you sorry for?”

“For shouting. For getting angry. For being weak and for making you hurt.”

Shaking his head, Draco opened his lips to say something but Harry kissed him this time, his hands sliding up to tangle his fingers in Draco’s hair, his tongue slipping inside Draco’s mouth. Forgetting whatever he had been about to say, Draco tilted his head and opened his mouth further, letting Harry taste him. If that was one thing he’d learned since all of this with Harry had began, it was that it was sometimes just as good to submit as it was to dominate.

Harry was very gentle, more gentle than Draco could ever remember anyone being with him. He pressed closer, tilting Draco’s head so he could angle better, lightly stroking his tongue along Draco’s, grazing his teeth.

Moments later, with hardly a break in the kiss, Harry had pulled Draco’s shirt off and tossed it aside. “Lay back,” he whispered, kissing Draco’s jaw.

Letting himself be guided until he lay on his back, Draco smirked a little as Harry straddled his waist. “What are you doing, Potter?” he drawled.

Harry smiled but didn’t reply, only kissed him in that same incredibly gentle way as before, lying so that his entire body was on top of Draco’s, pressed against him. Draco shifted, pulling his knees up so Harry’s hips were cradled against his, and Harry whimpered a little into his mouth.

“Dumbledore,” Draco said breathlessly, moaning a little when Harry started undoing his trousers.

Harry froze, confused. He glanced down at Draco, who’s eyes were glazed over, his face flushed. “What about him?” Surely Draco wasn’t fantasizing about Dumbledore while Harry touched him.

Draco took a deep breath and grinned. “He wouldn’t approve.”

“Ah,” Harry replied, losing interest and returning his focus to Draco’s trousers. “Why not?”

“Because we’re about to shag on the High Table.”

Harry’s head snapped up again and he glanced around, eyes wide. He’d forgotten all about the Great Hall! Littered on the table all around them were chocolate frog boxes, a half-empty jug of pumpkin juice, and two tumblers, and they were indeed about to shag on the High Table, right in front of the headmaster’s chair.

For a moment, Harry considered stopping, but Draco shifted restlessly beneath him (probably a deliberate act to get Harry’s attention), and Harry turned back to him.

“He never has to know,” he said breathlessly, lowering himself again to kiss Draco, shoving his hands down the other boy’s trousers. Draco smiled appreciatively and moaned.

“Anyone here?”

They both froze, Harry’s eyes flying wide as he glanced to the door, which was slowly creaking open. He looked back at Draco, half-naked and panting beneath him, eyes smoky and lips swollen, and started frantically trying to think up an excuse for this.

Draco’s legs swung up and locked around him, and Harry opened his mouth to yelp, trying to pull him off. Draco laughed softly, clapped his hand over Harry’s mouth, and rolled, right off the table, ensuring that he landed on the bottom so Harry wouldn’t be hurt.

“Don’t say anything,” he whispered. He’d grabbed his shirt and the invisibility cloak as they fell and threw it over them.

It was Filch, with his cat, Mrs. Norris. They peered suspiciously into the hall, taking in the garbage all over the table.

“My glasses,” Harry hissed suddenly, very quietly. Draco swore softly. They were still on the table, partially hidden by the jug of pumpkin juice.

“Stay behind Dumbledore’s chair and don’t move,” Draco commanded softly, shifting the cloak around him as he stood up. Filch, holding Mrs. Norris, was now standing before the table, studying the mess with narrowed eyes.

Draco started sliding his arm across the table slowly, towards Harry’s glasses, which Filch hadn’t yet noticed.

Filch lifted the jug of pumpkin juice, stuck his finger in it, and brought it up to his lips. “Still cold,” he whispered to his cat. “That means there’s someone out of bed!”

The glasses were an inch from Draco’s reach when Filch slammed the jug back down, nearly crushing his hand and sending the glasses sliding a little. Flinching a little, Draco leaned forward, reaching for them again.

That’s when Harry, who had crawled under the cloak around Draco’s feet, smirked and started stroking Draco’s leg.

Draco jumped a little, knocking into a chair, which made a soft scraping noise. Mrs. Norris’s ears twitched and Filch narrowed his eyes. “Who’s there?” he rasped. “I’ll get you, just wait, I’ll find you…”

Harry’s hand was sliding up Draco’s leg, past his knee and up his thigh, and Draco started panting, desperate to reach Harry’s glasses and get back under the table so he could kill that stupid boy.

Filch was raging now, throwing chocolate frog boxes and shouting at them, fury at his inability to see them making him crazy.

Draco’s fingers had just wrapped around the glasses when Harry’s hand had slipped inside his trousers, and he strangled a moan as he snatched them and quickly sank back under the table.

“You’re trying to get us killed!” he hissed to Harry, shoving the other boy’s glasses back on, his voice not heard over Filch’s shouting.

Harry was grinning widely, and he pulled his hand away, kissing Draco hard. “I was bored,” he whispered, snickering.

There was a sudden silence above and then Filch whispered, “I’ll see what Dumbledore has to say about this! Children out of bed!” He left, still hissing under his breath, and Harry struggled not to laugh.

“We’ve got to get out of here before Dumbledore comes,” Harry said.

Draco was struggling to do up his trousers and nodded, flashing Harry a grin. As soon as he was done, they stood carefully, glancing about for Filch and then dashing for the door, still under the cloak. The hall was clear and Harry grabbed Draco by the wrist, tugging him down it and up the stairs to Gryffindor Tower. As they rushed up the stairs, neither one could help snickering, and by the time they got to the Fat Lady, they were both laughing breathlessly.

Harry pulled Draco across the common room and up the stairs, into his dorm room where Seamus, Dean, and Neville were sleeping, the hangings on their beds closed. Harry glanced at Draco and motioned for him to be quiet, before slamming him against the closed door and kissing him again. The kiss grew bolder as Harry pressed closer, his mouth grinding against Draco’s as he bit Draco’s lip, his hands sliding lower, until his arms were around the other boy’s waist and he was tugging him closer. This Draco responded to more than the gentleness in the Great Hall, fighting for control because it was a force of habit and he liked this better than anything with Harry. The battle for control that had stopped being so much about winning and started being more about seeing how far they could push each other.

They stumbled a few steps, falling onto the nearest bed, thankfully empty.

It was a long time later when, tangled up and sprawled over Draco, neither wearing any clothing, Harry realized something and sat up, eyes widening even as a horrified giggle escaped him.

“Oh god,” he whispered.

“What?” Draco asked sleepily.

“This is Ron’s bed.”

Draco smirked a little as he sat up, glancing around. “It was empty, I thought it was yours.”.

“It is empty,” Harry realized, eyes widening still further. “But it’s so late, where’s Ron?”

“I’ll have to thank Pansy for this,” Draco mumbled, rolling out of the bed and grabbing Harry’s hand. “But still, sleeping in Weasley’s bed has never been a fantasy of mine, which one’s yours?”

Harry half-heartedly tried to straighten Ron’s sheets and then gave up, gathering up their clothes and carrying them over to his bed, giggling again, breathlessly, as he climbed onto the bed, pulling Draco with him and closing the hangings.

Draco kissed him and they started all over again, falling asleep tangled together hours later, the curtains sealed with silencing and locking charms.

***

There is a subtle art to the way the body works, with smooth and silken skin stretched over muscles and framework of bone. The way a chest would rise and fall with breath, making it seem all the more vulnerable and perfect for that mortality. Eyelashes so delicate and dark against pale skin, lips parted the tiniest bit in sleep, a hand closed into a fist and attached to an arm, outstretched and reaching.

Then again, maybe Draco just found art in watching Harry Potter sleep.

His father would kill him, his friends loathe him, but none of that mattered, however, because the sun was rising, shining through the bed hangings in tiny specks of gold, falling over Harry’s body, half turned towards him with tangled sheets around his hips and legs. A fine splash pattern of muted gold. His father could kill him a thousand times over and Draco wouldn’t care.

He’d never known imperfection could be beautiful. All of his life Draco had been taught that nothing was worthwhile until it was oozing with pure-blood, aristocratic beauty. Poisoned oleander flowers and belladonna. Not buttercups (too plebian) or thistle (too rough). Maybe that was why he found beauty in wild black hair and wide green eyes, glasses, crooked smiles.

The sun was higher now, and still golden, though now bright enough to cast a hazy light over the entire room. The other seventh year Gryffindors would be rising soon, and he had to go. If they found him here, in Harry’s bed… It did not bear thinking about. Not even heavy velvet bed hangings of crimson pulled tight around the bed, wrapped in a silencing spell, could keep the secret for long.

The invisibility cloak was tossed negligently at the foot of the bed, and Draco watched the sunspots hit random threads, making them dance, reflect rainbows.

Watching it, knowing he’d have to sneak away under it, suddenly made Draco extremely bitter, and he found himself not caring, suddenly, who found out.

But he had to care. Harry could be in danger if they weren’t careful. Already, Pansy, Weasley, and Granger knew. His father could not find out about this.

So it was still a secret then, which meant a long day of pretending that it was different, that Harry meant nothing to him. The night before could be nothing more than something to think about, and only very rarely. Draco usually couldn’t bear to think of it for too long, his body inevitably reacted to it.

Somewhere, someone whispered and there was a snort of laughter. They were waking and Draco sighed.

“Harry,” he whispered gently, shaking his shoulder. “I’ve got to go.”

Moaning low in his throat, Harry turned his face into the pillow, eyelashes fluttering weakly. “No,” he mumbled, and Draco smiled, leaning down and kissing his shoulder.

“Yes. C’mon, Harry. I don’t want to sneak out when you’re still asleep, it’s not very classy.”

Harry turned his head, eyes narrowed into sullen slits, looking more vulnerable because his glasses were safely stowed inside his trunk. “Fuck class,” he said very clearly, before flopping back down on the pillow.

“You wouldn’t be so hard to wake in the morning if you got more sleep,” Draco teased.

Turning his head once more, Harry scowled. “Whose fault is that?” he asked, rolling over and sitting up, still blinking sleepily.

“Yours, if I recall correctly,” Draco said almost primly. “You do carry on, Harry.”

Harry smirked. “You like it.”

He was looking adorably mussed, sitting there with his hair fluffy from sleep and lines from his pillow on his cheek, and Draco impulsively leaned over and kissed him quickly before running his hands through Harry’s hair, tidying it.

Harry rolled his eyes but let Draco fix his hair. “Everyone’s leaving today for the holidays,” he remembered suddenly.

“Yeah.” Draco smiled. “And I’m the only Slytherin staying, you can come and see me any time you want. The password’s Incendio.”

“Harry? Harry!” It was Neville and he was digging fruitlessly through the bed hangings, trying to open them. “Are you awake?”

Draco rolled his eyes and dove under the cloak, even as Harry tugged a sheet over himself and ended the locking charm. The hangings flew open.

“What?”

“It’s Hermione, she’s downstairs waiting to say goodbye.”

“I’ll be right down,” he promised, and Neville nodded, closing the hangings again. “Urg,” Harry mumbled, pulling a shirt over his head and reaching through the curtains for his glasses. Dean, Seamus, and Neville had already left the room, and Draco tossed the cloak off, smirking.

They were both just finishing dressing when the door flew open again and Draco froze, wide-eyes flying to it.

Ron stood there, his face pale, eyes narrowed as they flew suspiciously from Harry to Draco and then to the invisibility cloak on the floor.

Harry swallowed and glanced at Draco, who was smiling coldly, challengingly, at Ron. “Hi, Ron,” Harry said lamely.

“If you ever let him in here again,” Ron said very calmly. “I’ll tell Dumbledore. He’s not allowed in here.”

Harry got a little irritated. “And where were you all night? I’ll bet the same rule goes for Gryffindors in the Slytherin dorms.”

Ron turned a little red. “None of your business,” he snapped.

He pushed past Harry with enough force to knock him out of the way and into the wall. Before he got two steps away, however, Draco had stepped in front of him, smirking coldly at him. “If I didn’t know you were a Weasley and didn’t already know that you weren’t, I’d say that you obviously weren’t raised very well. That wasn’t very nice, don’t touch him again.”

Ron scowled, trying to shove Draco out of the way. “I could say the same for you, Malfoy, but I know you wouldn’t listen.”

“You could say the same, Weasley, but it wouldn’t be true, as I’m not a Weasley and was raised to be a hell of a lot more courteous than you.”

His face was turning purple and Ron snarled, “Not about that, about the rest of it. About not touching him again. Get out of my way.” This time, he tried to shove Draco, but the other boy reacted by pushing him back. Ron hit the door and growled, launching himself at Draco, knocking him the floor and punching him in the stomach. Smiling grimly, Draco reacted by slamming his fist into Ron’s jaw, sending his head snapping back and splitting his lip.

“Shit. Shit. Stop it! Will both of you grow up?” Harry cried, falling to his knees and trying to pull Ron off Draco.

“Don’t touch me,” Ron shouted as Harry tugged at him. He angled a swift kick at Harry, knocking him away and then going back to pounding Draco, who snarled and intensified his own attack.

“Don’t you dare touch him again,” Draco spat, flipping Ron over so that he was on top, pinning the other boy beneath him and slamming his fist against his face.

The shouting brought Hermione running, and she appeared in the doorway just as Harry threw all of his weight against Draco and knocked him off of Ron. They rolled, and Harry ended up pinning Draco against the floor, breathing heavily and scowling.

“Leave him alone,” he growled. “I don’t want to cause this.”

“He’s been asking for it for days,” Draco replied, his eyes narrowed and dark.

“I don’t care,” Harry replied, crawling off him and going to see if Ron was alright. Ron had already gotten to his feet and stalked to his bed, digging through his trunk to find something to stop his bleeding lip.

“Get Draco out of here,” Harry said over his shoulder to Hermione, as he approached Ron. He didn’t want them fighting anymore.

Draco snorted, rolled to his feet, and walked out without giving her the chance. Hermione hurried after him.

“Ron,” Harry snarled, after Draco had gone. “If you ever touch him again…”

“Only you’d be sick and perverted enough to think I was turned on, rolling around with Malfoy on the floor. Only you would have been jealous by that,” Ron spat.

Growling, Harry shoved him against the wall. “Don’t fucking try to make me any angrier, Ron. If you ever touch him again, I will hurt you. You may be my best friend, but you’re not doing a very good job of acting the part, and I will hurt you if you touch him again.”

He let go of him and walked away quickly, and if Ron had a reply, Harry didn’t hear it. He was gone in seconds, hurrying down the stairs.

Hermione was pacing the common room nervously. “Harry,” she said worriedly. “You didn’t hurt him?”

“Ron’s fine,” Harry said with a scowl. “But if he ever —”

“I know, Harry,” she said soothingly. “It was wrong of him, he shouldn’t have —”

Not feeling particularly up to listening to her pretend she understood, Harry interrupted. “Where’s Draco?”

She looked even more nervous now. “I caught up to him outside the Fat Lady, Harry, he was furious. He wouldn’t listen to me, he just left, I don’t know where he went.”

Harry felt an instant of panic and then he forced himself to calm down. Draco probably just went back to his own room.

“I’ve got to find him,” Harry said distractedly.

“Harry,” Hermione said gently. “Ron’s just upset. He doesn’t mean to make this harder for you.”

“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that being with Draco is hard for me. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done. The hard part is everyone’s making such a big deal about it!”

She looked chagrined. “Alright. Sorry. I’ve got to go, the carriages are leaving soon. I’ll see you after the holidays.”

After a quick good-bye, Harry hurried off to search for Draco.

He still didn’t quite feel confident enough to just walk up to the entrance to the Slytherin dorms, say the password Draco had given him, and saunter in. Instead, he wandered into the library, the Great Hall, and even the kitchens, searching for Draco. He went up to the South Tower and then outside, ending up at the hollow and sitting down in the roots of the tree, remembering all those times he’d sat there before, writing to Draco. How stupid and stubborn they’d been, to waste so long with words written in poisoned ink in a journal.

He started idly shifting the powdery snow through his mittened hands, confused when something glittered like ice on his palm. He brushed the snow off and saw it was a shard of glass.

“The inkwell,” he remembered. Draco had crushed it.

Harry dug until he’d uncovered all the broken pieces of it. There were dried remains of black ink, like dried blood, staining some of them, and when the sun hit them, they glittered. He shivered, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, and climbed to his feet, determined to find Draco again. It had only been a few hours, but he needed to see him.

“Incendio,” he said at the opening to Slytherin House. The stone barrier slid open and he stepped inside the common room.

It was empty, the fire had died down to a few glowing embers, the torches on the walls were dark, cold, as if they hadn’t been lit since the night before.

“Draco?” he called, but got no response. “It’s me. Are you here? Is anyone here?”

Again, only silence, and Harry approached the stairs that had to lead to the dorms. He’d only ever been in the common room before, and that had been second year, disguised as a Slytherin.

It was silent up there as well and by now, Harry was feeling very uneasy. It wasn’t just that he couldn’t find Draco, it was that he felt he had to find him. He could only imagine what Draco thought, since that morning. It probably looked like Harry was choosing Ron over him, but he hadn’t been, and he had to explain it to Draco.

There was no one there, he opened the door to every dorm, thinking that maybe Draco had fallen asleep. He hadn’t. He wasn’t there.

More than that, none of his stuff was there. No trunks, no clothing tossed on the floor (Harry had enough experience with Draco and the way he removed his clothes to know by now that he was never very neat when he did it), nothing.

The faint unease he’d inexplicably felt all day had tightened to very real worry, and Harry left the Slytherin dorms quickly, heading for Gryffindor Tower. He went up to his room and sat on his bed, thinking hard.

“Where is he?” he whispered.

Idly, he picked the crimson leaf off of his trunk and studied it in silence, twirling it between his fingers as he thought about what to do next.

“If he’s not at dinner,” Harry decided suddenly, out loud. “I’ll ask Dumbledore.”

The remaining members of his house had already made their way to the hall for dinner, and Harry, still playing with the leaf, quickly left his dorm, setting out for the hall. If anyone knew where Draco had gone, it would be Dumbledore. Because he had to be here, he had to be. He’d promised that he was staying. Something had to have happened.

There weren’t many students staying over the holidays, and they were all gathered around one table, with the professors. Harry was a few minutes late, and he sat beside Ginny, glancing at Dumbledore and then back around the table. Draco wasn’t there, and there were no Slytherins staying, so he couldn’t even ask them if they’d seen him.

Hoping that Draco would show up late, Harry picked at his food and waited, jumping every time anyone spoke to him, darting many furtive glances at the door.

Finally, they’d finished eating and Dumbledore stood to leave, talking softly to Professor Snape.

Harry hurriedly rose as well. “Professor Dumbledore,” he called.

Snape shot him an irritated glare for daring to interrupt, and Dumbledore said, “My office, Harry, in about fifteen minutes? I’ve a feeling I know what this is about.”

Harry nodded and they left, still talking quietly. The entire table of students was staring at him, including Ron, and Harry winced at the fury in his eyes. He didn’t know what he’d done wrong this time, and didn’t particularly care to wait around to find out.

He left quickly, heading straight for Dumbledore’s office and waiting. Exactly the appointed time, the door opened, letting Harry in. Up the spiral staircase and into the round office he went, the faces of sleepy headmasters peering at him, boredom in their eyes.

Dumbledore was behind the desk, his fingers tented in front of his face, his eyes patient and kind. “Well now, Harry, why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

“I thought you already knew,” Harry said, wincing at his own rudeness. He wasn’t thinking right because something had to have happened to take Draco away.

“I could be wrong. Tell me.”

“It’s Draco,” Harry blurted. “I can’t find him.”

Dumbledore shook his head gently, smiling. “But Harry, why on earth would you want to find a boy you’ve hated since the first day of school?”

Irritated, Harry sat down heavily in the chair across from Dumbledore and said, “I know you know more than you’re letting on, sir, so let’s skip this whole vague part of the conversation and get to the point. Where is he?” He had no patience for politeness and Dumbledore seemed to understand that.

He sighed. “He went home, Harry. He was needed there.”

“He promised he’d be here.”

“Not all promises can be kept, you know that. Just as not all circumstances can be foreseen.”

“What circumstances? What happened?”

“I wouldn’t normally break the bounds of confidentiality, Harry, but I somehow doubt Draco would mind in this case. It’s his father.”

“His father sent for him?” Harry whispered.

“His father,” Dumbledore said delicately, “was in no condition to do so.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Just tell me what happened!”

“He’s ill, Harry. We got an urgent message from the house elves, sending for Draco. Lucius is very ill, they doubt he’ll survive the night. He’s finally taken on more than he can handle.” Dumbledore’s voice had grown softer, his eyes distant, thoughtful.

“Ill? He’s ill? Lucius is dying.” Harry thought for a moment and then panicked. “But Draco… You don’t understand, you can’t have sent Draco there!”

“He needs to be there.”

“He can’t be there! What if Voldemort comes for him? If Lucius is dying, and the prophecy hasn’t happened yet, then he’s only got tonight to give Draco to Voldemort!” He wasn’t thinking quite coherently, and he leapt from his chair. “You can’t let Voldemort have him! He’s mine!”

“It’s his choice, Harry. We’ve done all we can for Draco, he’s stronger than you seem to think.”

“No, you don’t understand! He’s not going to be strong, his father is dying! He measures himself by his father, and his father wants him to go to Voldemort. Sometimes you don’t get a choice in these things. Did I ever choose to be yours?”

Finally, Dumbledore smiled, though just slightly. “You did choose, Harry, when you were eleven and you stood before the mirror and had immortality and wealth and all of Voldemort’s power spread before you and you saw only yourself, finding the stone. You choose further when you called Fawkes to you in the Chamber of Secrets. Sometimes you don’t even realize you’re making a choice, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t done so. You’ve got to have more faith in Draco, Harry.”

“I’ve got to go to him.”

Now, Dumbledore’s eyes hardened. “You won’t. You don’t belong there, I can’t protect you there.”

“You can’t protect him either and you let him go!”

“He’s not…”

“Not what?”

Dumbledore didn’t reply, and Harry scowled.

“Not Harry Potter? Not savior of the wizarding world?” Harry growled. “He could be, if you would give him half a chance!”

“He doesn’t want to be, Harry.”

“And I do?”

“Sometimes you don’t get a choice in these things.”

“Don’t you dare throw my words back in my face!” Fury made him reckless, rude. “So I don’t get a choice and he does?”

“Harry.”

“Send me to him.”

“I can’t. You don’t belong there, it isn’t your world.”

Harry was on his feet now, and he leaned over Dumbledore’s desk, hissing through gritted teeth, “If you can’t see that I belong wherever he is, then you’re mad.”

“Calm down, Harry,” Dumbledore said, very gently, sounding tired. “I won’t send you to him. He’ll come to you, he always does. You think that he measures himself by his father, but he stopped doing that when he was eleven and met a green-eyed boy in a robe shop.”

Suddenly Harry felt like he was going to cry. “You don’t understand.”

“Perhaps I don’t,” Dumbledore agreed. “But then, I’m not so old that I don’t remember what it is to be in love, Harry. You’ve got to have faith in him. Draco is not his father. He’ll come back to you.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Harry said quietly, before walking out of the office.

12

He was halfway back to Gryffindor Tower when the fury returned. Someone sought to take Draco from him?

The Fat Lady swung open wordlessly when she saw his scowl. “Dear, are you alright?” she asked as he stalked through.

He didn’t reply.

Ginny and Ron were playing chess in the common room, and they both looked up when he came inside. “Harry?” Ginny asked, getting to her feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Harry bit off savagely.

“Where’s Malfoy?” Ron asked quietly.

Harry spun towards him and exploded. “Like you care, like you fucking care, Ron!”

Instantly, Ron’s eyes grew hard. “I only —”

“I don’t care what you ‘only’, Ron! I don’t care about anything about you! So just leave me alone, because I don’t want to deal with you right now!”

It was Ron’s turn to become furious, and he leapt to his feet. “Don’t act like a fucking self-righteous prince, Harry! You’ve always thought that your problems were worse than everyone else’s and gone on about how horrible it is to be you, and whenever anyone tries to see if you’re alright, you bite their heads off! Is it any wonder Malfoy left you?”

Harry reacted like he’d been punched in the stomach, physically flinching. “He didn’t,” he whispered, eyes welling up with tears. “He didn’t leave me, he just left. And he needs me. And I don’t care if you think it’s wrong, Ron, because it’s the most right thing I’ve ever known and I don’t want to lose him.”

Before Ron could say another word, Harry hurried up the stairs to his room. He sat carefully on his bed because his body felt like glass, about to shatter.

It could have been hours or merely minutes before the door opened and Ron walked in. He looked thoughtful and very pale. “Harry?” he said quietly.

“What?”

Ron sat beside him, measuring his words carefully. “You’re very angry.”

“I’m scared,” Harry corrected.

“Is this what it’s going to be like? Are you going to be this scared and angry forever if you don’t get him back?”

Harry glanced at him sideways and didn’t say a word.

Ron rushed on. “Because I thought that if he was gone, like before, then we’d go back to how we were. You know. Because things changed when you and he… you know. And I thought, if only he went away, everything would be better again. But then he did go away, didn’t he? And… and nothing got better because you’re not even giving me the chance to get angry and shout at you, you shout at me first, and it’s just not right.”

It was rather incoherent and Harry shook his head. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Ron said after a moment, “that I’d rather have you if it means having Malfoy too than not have you at all and have things be like this.”

Harry swallowed thickly and would have said something, except all of this with Ron, it had stopped meaning anything the instant he had learned that Draco had gone home. To his father. To Voldemort. And that he had gone, thinking that Harry had chosen Ron over him when he hadn’t chosen either. He just hadn’t wanted Draco to be hurt anymore. “That’s lovely,” Harry said, suddenly feeling like he was going to cry. Or vomit. “But he’s gone.”

Ron got up and grabbed his cloak off his trunk, putting it on and then wrapping his Gryffindor scarf around his neck.

“Where are you going?” Harry asked tonelessly.

“Get your bloody cloak,” Ron snapped.

“What? Why?”

“Because! You’re the one who wants to go after Malfoy so bloody badly, so hurry up, before I change my mind!”

“But —”

Ron sighed. “Harry… trust me, alright?”

Harry grabbed his cloak. “But where are we going?”

“Where’s Malfoy?”

“At home.”

“Then I suppose we’re going there.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re hard enough to get along with when you’re in love with the git, let alone flopping about whining because he’s not here! Stop with the questions and let’s go!”

Harry couldn’t help but smile a little. “But why?”

With a wry and rueful grin, Ron asked, “What are friends for?” He shrugged a little.

“But I don’t know where Malfoy Manor is, and we have no way to get there.”

Ron shrugged. “The Knight Bus’ll pick us up from Hogsmeade and bring us wherever we wanna go.”

Even Ron couldn’t help but notice the way Harry’s eyes lit up behind his glasses, and a beaming smile twisted his lips. “Brilliant. But you don’t have to come with me, Ron.”

Ron scoffed. “Harry. You think I’d let you go traipsing off to Malfoy Manor alone? I don’t even trust you alone with Malfoy here where Dumbledore’s around to protect you if the prat tries to hurt you. And I know, you think he’d never hurt you. But honestly, Harry, you think this is easy for me, trusting a Malfoy not to hurt my best friend? I’m trying, I really am. So don’t lecture me, and let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we’ll be back. Hermione’s going to kill us for not bringing her. You do realize this, don’t you?”

Harry just laughed and grabbed his cloak and his scarf.

The walk to Hogsmeade was strange for Harry, who hadn’t been there since that night he’d run into Draco, drunk in the forest. The only sound was the crunching of snow beneath their shoes, and Harry shivered, glancing around the forest.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Thank you. For coming with me, I mean.”

Ron glanced at him. “Welcome. What are friends for? I… I’m sorry too. For everything. Not for fighting him, of course.” That was said with wild defiance and a scowl. “But for being such a prat. I don’t like him, Harry, I’ll never like him. But if you like him enough for all of this…” He waved a hand vaguely, indicating the current situation, “then I guess I’ll… let it go. But if he ever hurts you, Harry, I’ve got first claim on kicking his arse.”

Harry smiled a little. “He won’t, Ron. He’d never hurt me. He loves me.”

“Spare me the details,” Ron moaned, looking pained.

Laughing, Harry shoved him a little. “You’ve got him to thank for getting together with Pansy, you know that, don’t you? It was his plan.”

Ron looked appalled. “He was in on that? Tell me he had nothing to do with that!”

Harry just smiled.

They walked the rest of the way talking lightly, catching up on all they’d missed, as busy as they’d both been lately.

On the outskirts of Hogsmeade, Ron hailed the Knight Bus and he and Harry climbed onto it, paying the fare and making their way to the back, sitting on creaky beds. For some reason, they were both giggling, the whole idea of having escaped from Hogwarts by way of the Knight Bus to rescue Draco Malfoy, disobeying Dumbledore’s orders directly, going to their heads and making them a little giddy. After all, despite everything they’d done in their younger years at Hogwarts, they’d never done anything this foolhardy, reckless, and… strange. Rescuing Draco Malfoy? A year ago, Harry would have laughed himself hoarse at the very idea.

It took a few hours to get to Malfoy Manor and Ron slept for most of them. Harry was too tense to sleep, and listened to the creaking bus, biting his lip and conjuring up a thousand possible scenarios for what was about to happen. First, he’d hold him and tell him he was sorry about Lucius. Which he was. Not for Lucius’s sake, of course, he loathed Lucius. But for Draco. Then he’d explain about the scene that morning, that he hadn’t really taken Ron’s side, he just hadn’t wanted Ron to hurt him. And then he’d kiss him and never ever let him go. Harry smiled a little at the thought.

The bus dropped them off outside Malfoy Manor and Harry stared at it in mesmerized horror. It was a huge gothic mansion, tall, dark, made of stone, with granite gargoyles perched on the roof. It looked frightening, intimidating, and not warm at all. Every window in it was dark, except one, which flared with colour.

“That must be Draco’s room,” Harry whispered. It was the type of house you didn’t want to speak too loud in front of, as if it had ears and you didn’t want it to notice you standing before it.

“Let’s go then,” Ron replied nervously, taking a few brave steps towards the front gate.

Harry grabbed his sleeve. “Ron. You’re not going in.”

Ron whirled around and scowled. “I’m not letting you prance off into Malfoy Manor alone, Harry!”

“Yeah, you are. It’ll be dangerous; I don’t want you in danger. Draco’ll take care of me if anything goes wrong, I know he will. But if you’re there too and something happens, he might not be able to help us both.” It was a lie, sort of. Harry was quite sure that it would be fine, nothing would happen, and it was hardly dangerous. He just didn’t want Ron inside that house; Draco would hardly appreciate it. If he was upset over his father, he wouldn’t want Ron to see.

“But Harry —”

“The bus driver said there’s a village just over that hill,” Harry said, pointing as he pulled a small bag of coins out of his pocket. “Go there and… and wait for me, alright? And if I don’t send word in… three hours, go back to Hogwarts without me.”

Ron laughed grimly. “Right, Harry, I’ll do just that, you stupid prat,” he said sarcastically. “If you don’t show up in two, I’m coming back for you. I’ll see if they’ve got any carriages or anything to borrow or whatever, and I’ll wait for you. I’m not going back without you.”

“Right, do that then.” Harry smiled reassuringly. “It’ll be fine.”

Ron hardly looked reassured but set off towards the village anyway, and Harry watched until he was out of shouting distance. Then, taking a deep breath, he touched the front gates. They were iron and cold, swinging open at his touch. He let out his breath and, praying that they didn’t have any sort of security charm, stepped hesitantly onto the grounds of the manor.

***

Draco didn’t know what he expected. Dumbledore had shown him the letter from one of his house elves, had gently explained things that Draco was too dazed to catch, and then had sent him home in a carriage. Hours, maybe days later (his concept of time from the meeting with Dumbledore until months later would always be distorted) he’d arrived at home. Usually his mother was there to meet him on the steps, but she had died the summer before. He charmed his trunk to float behind him and led it up to his bedroom, sitting on the side of his bed for a long time, lost in thought, Dumbledore’s words echoing in his mind.

“It’s your father, Draco. There’s been an accident. The details aren’t at all clear to me yet, but from what I’ve been able to gather from the letter your house elf sent, a spell backfired… Something went wrong…” More words, sympathetic, soothing words, none of which meant a damn thing. “I’m sorry, Draco…”

“Sorry?” Draco whispered. He didn’t know how he felt about that, really. His father had always been a presence in his life that couldn’t be denied. They’d never been close. Close? They’d never been anything! Which was what had lead to this numb confusion. They were going to be close, as soon as Draco was strong enough… ‘Malfoy’ enough. As soon as he’d done something to make his father proud.

But then, the things that would make his father proud…

Draco stopped thinking about it and instead thought of Harry, who he knew would be frantic. He wished he’d thought to leave a note, to say good-bye. Harry wouldn’t have forgotten had it been him.

Someone else Draco would never live up to. If there was one thing he hated, it was feeling inferior, and he was so confused at the moment that he found himself feeling inferior to Harry. It was easier to be furious at Harry for all those years of making him feel inferior then his father for an entire lifetime of it. His father, who was dying.

Fury. Draco slammed out of his bedroom, finding strength in that rage.

His father’s room was on the fourth floor and Draco’s anger sustained him all the way up the stairs. He threw the door to his father’s bedroom open and there he froze, uncertain.

The room was dark. The house elves were terrified of disturbing Lucius, after the last one to try had received a bookend to the head. That had been a few days ago, however, when they still thought there was some hope. When Lucius was still strong enough to light his own fires. His strength had fallen prey to the weakness soon after, and now, Lucius, Prince of the Malfoy family fortunes, second hand to Voldemort, was bedridden and dying.

Draco had never been afraid of his father. As a child, he’d tried to emulate him, they had never been close, and Draco had always known it was because his father found him weak. Now, staring down at the shattered man who lay there with huge, glazed eyes (the very same ones that Harry had only the night before claimed that Draco had inherited), Draco shook his head slowly.

“I don’t even know you,” he whispered. “How am I supposed to be you when I don’t even recognize you?”

Lucius was aged now much more than ever, with eyes as dark as bruises and as deep and empty as a hole in the ground. Draco felt a vague stirring of numb horror.

“What did you do?” he asked in a hoarse, shocked tone.

Lucius’ eyes narrowed and, when he spoke, spit glistened at the corners of his lips. “Nothing. Nothing. You’ve got to finish it.”

“Finish what?”

Lucius lurched forward, trying to sit up. “Bringing her back.”

For one wild moment, Draco didn’t say anything. He was afraid of what he’d say if he opened his mouth. When he finally spoke, his voice cracked. “Bring back who?”

“Narcissa.”

Draco would have flinched had he remembered how to move.

“Too weak. She was too weak. I was too weak. All too weak.” Lucius was ambling now, eyes closed.

“Father… Father, what are you talking about?” he sounded as though he were begging and, in a way, he was.

Manic strength gave Lucius the power to sit up. “You have to understand. I had to bring her back! She couldn’t leave me, she couldn’t leave me to do this alone, I couldn’t do it. She was so weak!”

“Where… where is she?” Draco asked, swallowing hard.

“In the dungeon,” Lucius whispered, falling back and closing his eyes again. “I kept her in the dungeon, all these months, while I waited for the proper time to call her back. I kept her body whole, kept it clean… waited… gathered ingredients and strength… not enough strength. He’ll know it, he’ll know it when he sees me, he’s here, Draco, he’s here, and this is my punishment… punishment…” He was shaking his head now and rambling, and Draco backed out of the room.

His eyes ached, like someone had poured sand on them. Walking slowly, delicately, he made his way downstairs to the dungeons. As soon as he opened the iron door that led to the last flight of stairs, he could hear the screaming. He knew from his studies that Necromancy was one of the forbidden arts and that, if interrupted, the body lies halfway between death and life, the soul torn between two polar opposites. It’s like dying only a thousand times more painful because the soul resists being torn from the afterlife and the body resists having it forced back inside.

Only the most powerful wizards could do it, and Lucius had always been cruel but never powerful. His body and mind had cracked before he could finish it, and Narcissa’s body was twitching and writhing, her lips, dead and tinged blue, were wide open, emitting shrieks that hurt to hear. Her wrists and ankles had been shackled to the stone slab she lay on, and all around her, painted on the floor, were the symbols his father had drawn for the spell.

Draco stood on the bottom stair, unable to tear his eyes away from his mother’s body.

Her eyes were opened, but rolled back, white. Her hair, always her main vanity, ratty and dull, dusty and tangled. Her skin was limp, too pale, and had a gray tint to it. The dress she’d been entombed in lay off her body like a skeleton. Her stomach was still rounded as she’d died while giving birth and the baby was still inside of her.

And she was still screaming and twitching.

Finish it, his father had said. Finish it. Draco didn’t even know how.

Clapping one hand over his mouth to stop himself from vomiting, he ran back up the stairs and into the nearest bathroom.

Then he returned to his father. “If you loved her so much, you would have let her go,” he said weakly.

“I didn’t do it for her,” his father said with a strange smile.

“Then why?”

“For you.”

Draco sat heavily on the floor against the wall, burying his head in his hands. “Why?” he croaked. “Why would you do this for me?”

“Better to lose a child I’ve never known then you.”

Lifting his head, Draco stared at his father. “What?”

“He wants you. He’s always wanted you. I kept him away. I made you weak.”

“You…” Draco started laughing painfully, standing up and coming closer, leaning over the bed. “Just tell me already. Tell me all of it, before you lose anymore of your mind.”

“He gives nothing without a price, nothing, but you were mine. You were mine.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco whispered.

Lucius’s eyes flew wide. “He’s here,” he whispered. He grabbed Draco’s robes and tugged him closer, hissing, “He’s here. Run. Get out!”

Jerking out of his father’s grasp, Draco shook his head, stepping back. “I don’t understand you,” he said quietly. “I don’t understand why you’ve done this.”

Lucius’ eyes had wandered away from him and focused on something behind him, and Draco suddenly became aware of the chill in the room, the darkness. He turned slowly but there was no one there.

Terror had twisted Lucius’ already twisted face and his ragged breathing had become even more laboured. “Get out of here,” he whispered, and Draco somehow didn’t think he was talking to him.

“Father…” Draco pleaded softly. “Stop.”

Sucking in a painful, hissing breath, Lucius’ body suddenly bucked, his head falling back, and he shrieked, suddenly looking like Narcissa’s body had in the dungeon. Wondering nervously if that was the price for being too weak to finish a high level dark spell, Draco slowly backed towards the door, eyes trained on his father. It was almost as if his father were going through the Necromancy spell himself, only backwards. His soul was being forced from his body.

When Lucius kept shrieking, the same, otherworldly shrieks as Narcissa had just moments earlier, Draco turned and ran from the room, squeezing his eyes shut and slamming the door behind him. He could still hear the screaming, and he was shaking as he hurried blindly away.

He instinctively made his way back to the dungeon, because even if she wasn’t really his mother, she was still… part of his mother. A small part. And he had missed her, and mothers were who you were supposed to go to when you were scared and suddenly the dark was too frightening because it seemed to jump out at you.

“Mother?” he whispered, pausing on the last stone step and watching her body with narrowed eyes. She was panting like an animal, the motion all the more grotesque because her body was still dead, and her lungs were faltering, jerking and wheezing and echoing with the air forcing its way into dead flesh.

Draco dropped onto the last stair, sitting there and watching his mother’s body fight off her soul, his eyes wide. Every time she screamed, he fancied he heard an echoing cry from his father, though of course he couldn’t, not so many floors down. He’d flinch just the same.

He watched over her for a long time, minutes shifting into endless hours, as he wondered numbly when the ritual had gone badly, when this torture had started. He didn’t know how to finish it and probably didn’t have the power.

He sat there so long that the shadows began swaying strangely before his glazed eyes, taking on strange shapes that would melt away whenever he focused his eyes on them. That was why it took him a moment to react to the feeling of eyes on him, and then he only reacted because the body of his mother had stiffened, her eyes rolling in her head, her scream twisting into a whimper. Then, her eyes rolled again, the whites rolling back to show her irises for the first time. They were dilated and black, empty. And they were fixed sightlessly on the far wall, much the way his father’s had been.

Draco followed her stare and narrowed his eyes, waiting for the shadow she was watching to melt away.

It stepped forward instead, and smiled.

Draco rose slowly to his feet, his heart pounding, though he wasn’t afraid. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

“Draco,” was the reply, said in a soft, pleasant tone. “Where else would I be?”

“In hell? It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t want you here, I don’t want you near her.”

Voldemort glanced almost fondly at Narcissa’s body, and then back at Draco. “You said you didn’t understand.”

“When?” Draco asked dully, aware that he should be scared, or humbled. A private audience with the Dark Lord himself, who wouldn’t be honoured? But he wasn’t. Scared or honoured or anything, really.

“When you were standing over your father’s body. You said you didn’t understand why he’d done this.”

“You were there.” It wasn’t a question.

Voldemort smiled. “Where else would I be?” He stepped closer, studying Draco in the thick shadows. “Don’t you want to know, Draco?”

Draco nodded, not because he particularly cared, but because he felt it was expected of him, and Draco always strove to do what was expected of him.

Narcissa moaned; she seemed to have stopped writhing, and was now shaking, her lips falling open, her eyelids fluttering weakly. Despite himself, Draco got to his feet and stood over her, studying her. She’d always been so beautiful to him, an ice queen, his own pretty, perfect mother. And now she was a monster.

He reached out to touch her cold face and she flinched, lips wrinkling back in an awful hiss.

“I want to know,” Draco said hollowly.

“He did it for you, Draco. Everything he’s ever done was for you.”

Draco shook his head, laughing harshly. There was a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach as things started clicking together in his mind. “What’s he ever done for me?” Draco whispered defiantly.

Cocking his head to the side, Voldemort studied Draco in silence for a long moment, an indulgent smile on his face. He reached forward and stroked one finger down Draco’s face. “Such a pretty boy,” he said softly, and Draco jerked away.

“Don’t touch me,” he said, oddly shaken.

Voldemort just smiled. “I’ll do whatever I like,” he said simply. “Now that your father’s gone. Or nearly. That was the arrangement, after all.”

“Arrangement,” Draco repeated heavily.

“Of course. You, in exchange for her.” Voldemort had turned back to Narcissa’s mangled body, smiling down at her graciously. “You were only a child when the binding was done, I suspect you don’t remember.”

“The prophecy,” Draco realized, his eyes widening. “You’re talking about the dratted prophecy! You and everyone else in the world, it seems! That’s ridiculous! I don’t believe in fate, and I certainly don’t believe that being your ‘disciple’ or whatever is mine, so sod off. You can’t have me.”

Voldemort smiled again, showing his pointed teeth. “But Draco,” he said softly, his voice a warm hiss. “You’re already mine.”

“What are you talking about?” Draco spat.

“Your father was just a boy himself when he made the arrangement, and his pretty young wife was too weak to have a child. A family curse, I suppose, weakness. You were killing her, your mother, and Lucius could tell. He honestly loved her, then. And she was dying. He went a little mad and was about to do something quite melodramatic and pathetic when I happened to arrive on the scene. He’d been a follower of mine, you see, though not very useful, and I strove to strengthen my power over him. An important man, your father. And then there was the Malfoy Prophecy. Loyalty is what I praise above all else, Draco.”

“Mother was dying and Father was going to kill himself. Over me.” Draco’s voice was hollow, he was finding it hard to process.

“Patience, Draco. The story’s only half done. So I offered him a deal. I’d save her life, and the life of the child she carried, if he’d give me a child. My own stupid fault, I suppose, wording it that way. But he seized on that hope and signed the life of his child away. Narcissa survived, and you were born. Weak and sickly, of course, given your mother’s weakness, but still, alive. The deal was that you would be mine upon his death. I had no use for you, until he was gone and I needed you to take his place. His loyalty, I thought, was assured. I had saved your life. He owed me his soul. He betrayed me, in the end. He sought to keep you from me. Sought to make you weak so that I wouldn’t want you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were a sickly child, Draco. It was Narcissa who first realized why. He poisoned you with small amounts of belladonna and ground cypress root, to keep you weak, small, pale. So that I would not want you. It had been easy enough to sign away the life of a baby he’d never seen, but to hand over his beautiful little boy… Narcissa did not take it well, the poisoning, but then, she didn’t know about the arrangement. She was furious and told others about it, and I heard of it, and my wrath was, understandably, quite extreme. He was punished, but he was still alive, so you were not mine yet. He came up with another plan to keep you, however. ‘Better a child he’d never met than his baby dragon’, is what he said to me, in his one moment of defiance.”

“My father would have never —” Draco began.

“I had said he had to give me ‘his child’ but had not specified which one. A technicality, but truth all the same. He killed her for you, Draco. He knew she couldn’t have another child, she should have died the first time. But he did it for you. Maybe not on purpose. He wasn’t thinking clearly and only sought a way to keep you, his first child. Maybe he didn’t kill her directly for you, but indirectly, surely.”

Draco was shaken, and he was sure, if he had the time to process things, he’d be shocked. As it was, he could only stare at his mother’s dead body and force himself to breath steadily through his nose because allowing himself to suffocate wouldn’t accomplish anything. “He didn’t bring her back because he wanted her,” he said out loud. “He wanted the baby.”

“Yes. Because until a child is born, its soul is bound to the mother’s. He did not have the necessary spell items to raise the dead child. The bits of hair he pulled from Narcissa’s brush, or even the body, as it was still inside her, anything of the child’s necessary for the ritual to be effective. So he tried to bring her back, and the baby as well, so she could finish it.”

Draco’s eyes were drawn to his mother’s stomach, distended with wisps of dusty funeral clothes draped over it. He hadn’t even thought about the baby.

“A girl,” Voldemort said gently, stroking Narcissa’s arm. “It would have been a little girl, had your mother been strong enough to survive it, your father strong enough to finish this. A pretty little child, and she would have been mine.”

“Don’t touch her,” Draco whispered, feeling sick.

“Instead,” Voldemort continued, ignoring him. “He failed and the spell backfired, sapped his strength and destroyed his mind. Three souls caught in between death and life, all waiting for a wizard strong enough to finish it.”

“Finish it,” Draco growled. “Stop it, she’s hurting, she’s not supposed to be here, let her go.”

“Now that all depends, Draco, on you. I can finish it, easily. I can return her to you.” As proof, he drew his wand from his pocket and whispered a spell Draco didn’t catch, gently drawing Narcissa’s soul the rest of the way into her body, easing the incredibly agony that had been tearing her apart.

Draco’s eyes widened with something like wonder when his mother’s body relaxed, the horrible breathing calming into something weak, sporadic, but soft, normal. Her gray face seemed to fill out around her skull, colour blossoming there, like a flower, her lips their normal coral colour. Her hair, while still tangled and dirty, was vibrant blonde again. Most miraculous of all, her eyes closed slowly and, when they opened, they were a little glazed, but their normal dark blue, sparkling, and wonderfully alive.

“Draco?” she whispered, voice raspy. Her hands, still shackled to the platform, curled into weak claws.

“Mother,” he cried softly, touching her dusty face. It was warm.

“Nothing comes without a price,” Voldemort whispered behind him, his breath stirring the hairs on the back of Draco’s neck.

Draco ignored him for the moment. Narcissa’s face twisted suddenly as an interrupted contraction tore through her. When it had faced, she was panting, whimpering. “What’s happening?” she whimpered. “Where’s Lucius?”

Draco smiled reassuringly at her, even if his eyes had welled up with tears. He took her hand, his other stroking her face soothingly. “Shh, now, Mother,” he scolded gently. “Everything’s fine.”

“Then why are you crying?” she asked with a faint smile.

“Crying, Mother?” he teased her, very softly. “You should know better than most that Malfoys never cry.”

Her hand clenched around his with another contraction, and Draco closed his eyes slowly. She was about to give birth to the baby that had killed her months before: Draco’s sister.

“What do you want from me?” he asked over his shoulder, not tearing his eyes from his mother’s face.

“What I’ve always wanted,” Voldemort replied almost lazily. “Your loyalty. You.”

“I’m not my father,” Draco whispered, even as he stroked his mother’s face.

“Are you sure?” It was silky, and very tempting.

“Yes. I won’t… I won’t give myself up to you. Not even… Not even for her.”

“But the child, Draco,” Voldemort hissed. “Not even for the innocent child? A beautiful little girl?”

Draco closed his eyes. “Not for anyone,” he lied.

Fury flashed in Voldemort’s eyes and growled, tightening a hand on his wand as he began the complicated incantation to undo the spell Lucius had begun and he had finished only moments before.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Draco whispered, kissing her cheek.

“For what? What’s happening?” she asked, and he nuzzled her hand, still shackled there. She stroked his face.

“Nothing,” he reassured her, his voice hoarse.

“Draco?” she whispered, eyes flying wide, breathing through her nose. “Draco, what’s… what’s happening?”

Her skin was slowly turning gray, sliding off her skull like silk or water, until it was hanging limply again. Her breathing grew shaky once more, and her eyes were twitching in their sockets, as though they longed to start rolling again but force of will held them trained on Draco’s face.

The hand he still held in his became gaunt, skeletal.

“Nothing, Mother,” Draco lied, smiling reassuringly.

Voldemort finished the incantation in a hiss and Narcissa’s body convulsed once as her soul was torn from it. Her lips pulled back in a shriek that twisted in her throat and emerged as a hiss, her last breath leaking from her dead lungs.

“Your father was linked to her, he’s gone as well,” Voldemort said scathingly, sounding almost like Professor Snape, delivering a punishment for a disappointing answer in class. “Your weakness has cost you everything.”

“My weakness?” Draco asked quietly, still staring at his mother. “You’ve got no idea about my weaknesses, and you never will. Get out of my house.”

“I can make you do as I say,” Voldemort hissed.

“You said it yourself, loyalty is the most important thing to you, and Imperius will hardly make me want to follow you. What sort of loyalty is that?” Draco spat, letting go of his mother’s hand. It had grown cold in a second.

“You were always a foolish boy.”

“Maybe. But I’m not yours, so it shouldn’t matter to you. Get out of my house.” Draco was so exhausted, he didn’t even wait to see if Voldemort would go. He turned and walked out of the dungeons, feeling dirty and very, very tired. More than anything, he wanted to be back at Hogwarts, curled up beside Harry and fast asleep.

He walked into his bedroom, started a huge fire in the hearth to keep the shadows away, and collapsed on his bed, falling asleep in his grimy clothes without bothering to get under the covers.

His dreams, understandably, were very dark.

***

Waking was startling for Draco, whose nightmares had been the type that grasp tightly and drive all remembrance out of the consciousness. One moment he was terrorized, shadows dancing in his dreams, the next, his eyes were opened and staring at the roof of his bedroom, his breathing ragged.

“Draco?” the voice was soft, pleading, and Draco’s entire body stiffened.

“Harry,” he hissed, sitting up and turning to stare at the other boy, whose face was cast in darkness from the shadows flickering in the hearth. “You shouldn’t be here!”

Harry drew back, as if stung. “Draco, I only… are you alright?”

“How did you find me?” Draco slid off his bed and stalked to the fire, throwing more wood in as if that would keep the things that threatened Harry away. He was threatened by more than shadows, however, and Draco was terrified.

“I can always find you,” Harry whispered.

Draco glared at him, and Harry sighed.

“Ron brought me here, on the knight bus. I knew which room was yours because it’s the only one with a fire burning… I… I was worried.”

“You shouldn’t worry about me, don’t you get it?” Draco shouted, patience running out. He spun around and glared at Harry. “You don’t get it. You shouldn’t be here! I don’t want you to be here!”

“I heard about your father,” Harry replied warily, trying not to look hurt.

“Well you didn’t hear all of it, all the nasty details, and hopefully you never will,” Draco said grimly.

“Are you alright?” Harry had come closer, his eyes searching Draco’s face. He reached up and touched his cheek gently. “It must be so hard.”

Draco flinched and pushed Harry roughly away. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed. “You don’t understand. You’ve got to leave, you’ve got to go, right now.”

“Draco, I’m not going to leave you,” Harry swore. “You need me.”

Narrowing his eyes, Draco took a deep breath. Better to hurt Harry and keep him safe than to protect him now only to lose him later. It was panicky reasoning at best, but the only thing he knew was that Harry needed to get out, now. He closed his eyes and let his face relax into familiar, cold lines. Then he drawled almost lazily, “Honestly, Potter, need you? You’ve certainly got a high opinion of yourself.”

Harry blinked. “What?” He took a step back and Draco rolled his eyes.

“You thought I wanted you here? In the same house as my father?” He laughed scornfully. “You said so yourself, that I didn’t understand what it was not to have a father and now I do. You should be glad.”

“Draco.”

“Harry.” His voice was heavy with loathing. The shadows were dancing in the corners and Draco watched them carefully. Voldemort could be lurking, after all, and he didn’t want him to know of Draco’s one weakness: Harry.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Did you think it would last? That I’d choose you over everything my father had built for me?” He laughed again. “You’re mad. It was a game. The ink, the journal, all of it. Amusing, but it grew old fast.”

“You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie to you, Potter? After all we’ve been through together?” He smirked, openly mocking, even while flinching at the way Harry’s eyes dilated with shock. Draco forcibly restrained himself from reaching out and touching him, reassuring him. After all, there’d be time to explain, when they were away from all of this and no one could hurt them. No one could hurt Harry.

Harry breathed deeply through his nose, his lids half closed over dark green eyes as he struggled to understand. Draco shoved him roughly towards the door.

“Why?” Harry whimpered, his eyes shining unnaturally in the firelight.

“Someone made me a better offer,” Draco smirked.

“Voldemort.”

“Who else? Besides. I don’t want you anymore.”

“I —”

“Get out of here! Don’t ever come here again! Leave me be, I’m sick of your… your glasses and your stupid green eyes and your messy hair and all of you! The way you look at me, like you think I handed you the world and then shattered it while you watch! I hate everything about you, I always have! You think these months are enough to fight destiny? This is where I’m meant to be, what I’m meant to do and nothing, not even loving the… the taste of you…” he trailed off, swallowing, and then finishing firmly. “Nothing will change that.”

“If that’s the way you feel, Draco,” Harry said quietly, reaching for the door, “then you don’t deserve me.”

He walked away without looking back. Had he glanced over his shoulder, he would have seen Draco looking stricken and pale, but he didn’t, and the door swung shut behind him.

***

Furious was a much safer way to feel than hurt, and that was the only reason Harry didn’t cry. His eyes were stinging, of course, but with angry tears, which was a thousand times better, he reasoned, as he stumbled almost blindly towards the lower floors of Malfoy Mansion. A house elf had answered his knock before and had let him in and he had made his own way from there, and now, he couldn’t quite remember the way.

He glanced around, eyes narrowing, and looking for an elf to ask directions from. There was no one and he kept walking, shaking his head from time to time and mumbling out loud to himself. He’d wait until he was back at Hogwarts to fall apart, however. Now was certainly not the time. He was sure everything would make sense, once he was away from Draco with his burning, furious eyes and his smug smirk that Harry recognized from years and years of having it turned upon him. It had to make sense, some sort of sense that escaped him at the moment, because there was no way he would ever believe that Draco would hate him for that episode in his room that morning, with Ron.

Then there was his father, and Harry had no idea what was going on with that. What if Lucius had said something, something to change Draco’s mind?

Dumbledore had been right, this wasn’t Harry’s world. He didn’t belong here.

Harry had just made it to the entrance hall and was about to open the front door, when the shadows behind him started to whisper and flicker.

It was dark, there were no torches lit here, and he turned slowly, eyes narrowing. “Hello?” he called. “Draco?”

Whispery laughter answered him and Harry’s stomach went cold in sudden fear. He recognized that laughter. “Voldemort.” He drew his wand quickly and held it up in a defensive position, still searching the shadows for Voldemort, eyes narrowed. He took a few steps forward, squinting into the darkness.

“Where are you?”

Laughter again, this time from behind him, and Harry spun. Voldemort was standing by the door, watching him indulgently. “Hello, Harry,” he said with a smile.

“Get away from the door.”

“You’re hardly in a position to give orders, Harry.”

“Let me pass.”

“Harry.”

“I mean it!” All the wild emotions of the past few hours crashed upon Harry and he started screaming. “Let me through! I want nothing to do with you, I didn’t come here to battle with you, I don’t want anything to do with you, so let me pass!”

Voldemort just smiled, and before Harry had any idea of what to expect, the dark wizard had drawn his wand, a snake-like flick of a wrist. Harry raised his own in defence, but before he had time to say a single word, he was cursed into darkness.

***

Draco went a little mad. It was all too much to deal with, honestly. The death of his father, the raising and destroying of his mother, finding out the reasons behind his father’s loyalty to Voldemort, speaking with Voldemort, and then shouting at Harry. Hurting Harry.

Shouting with wordless fury, he kicked his wardrobe over, sending it crashing to the ground, and still, the rage burned uncontrollably. He’d never believed in fate, but apparently fate had a way of fucking you over whether you believed in it or not.

By the time the hot anger had faded into something far more dull and painful, Draco’s bedroom was in ruins. He’d destroyed the wardrobe, the mirror, the bed, the paintings on the wall, torn the curtains from the window, and only just barely managed to restrain himself from lighting the entire mess on fire.

He was breathing heavily when he finally paused to survey the destruction, feeling oddly satisfied and emptier than before.

Swearing softly, he made his way to the window, sitting in the alcove there and staring blindly out at the grounds below.

It took a few seconds for it to register, and when it did, Draco nearly started to cry.

There was a carriage parked on the street outside, Weasley just visible inside, Harry nowhere in sight. He’d never made it out.

“He just got lost in the halls, that’s all,” Draco reassured himself. “I suppose it would be hard to find your way out if you hadn’t grown up here.”

He hurried from his room, calling Harry’s name. In all his panic, he forgot his wand.

No one answered his calls and in the entrance hall, Draco found proof of why. Harry’s wand was lying on the floor, forgotten; he’d made it this far but something had prevented him from walking out the door and to Weasley’s carriage?

Draco snarled furiously, picked up the wand, and stalked down the stairs towards the dungeon.

The rage lasted only until his foot touched the stone floor and then it was replaced by the coldest, darkest fear he’d ever known. His mother’s body had been taken from the stone platform and was lying on the floor, her head tilted awkwardly, her eyes glassy. On the platform in her place, Harry lay on his back, his head tilted back and exposing his throat, his arms spread on either side of him and hanging limply over the edges of the platform. His eyes were closed, his face very, very pale, and his robes were soaked with blood. The scent of blood lay heavily on the air, as did the mild aftertaste of dark magic, and Draco approached Harry carefully.

“Harry?” he whispered, but Harry didn’t stir. “Harry, it’s me. It’s Draco. Wake up.” The words of the prophecy were whispering in the back of his mind, over and over again, faster and faster, and the room was beginning to spin.

A sacrificial dagger lay on the floor, a pattern of snakes carved into the blade, stained with Harry’s blood.

“No,” Draco whispered, picking it up. It was cold. “Harry.”

He’d seen enough ancient texts of rituals to know that the dark ones always required blood, spilt with this type of dagger. Harry had been bled, had lost too much blood… Draco had let Voldemort have him, had let Harry walk right into him, alone, thinking that Draco didn’t love him anymore. “No,” he whimpered, gently lifting Harry’s arms and moving them closer to his body. From her place on the floor, Narcissa’s dead eyes, glinting in the torchlight, watched. He could feel those eyes on him and he started to panic. It was startlingly similar to losing his mind.

Lying Harry’s wand beside him carefully, Draco tiled Harry’s head down and tried to pull him up, into a seated position. “You’ll be alright,” he said brightly, pulling Harry’s limp body against his chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “C’mon, Harry, you’ll be fine,” he repeated, voice sharp, about to break. He kissed Harry’s forehead.

Harry’s head was lolling limply against Draco’s shoulder, and Draco’s panicking mind lit upon a sudden, wild idea. “He needs blood,” he whispered, laying Harry gently back down. Without a thought, he slit his own wrist and held it to Harry’s lips. His blood smeared on Harry’s face, very little actually getting into his mouth, and Draco started breathing quickly, hyperventilating.

“I won’t let you leave me,” he hissed, shaking him now. “I won’t let you go. Take mine. Take my blood, it’ll help you. You lost yours, have mine.” It was flawed logic at best, but that didn’t occur to Draco. This entire situation was fundamentally flawed. Harry wasn’t supposed to be hurt.

“That’s not going to help him,” Voldemort drawled from behind him.

Draco’s eyes narrowed but he didn’t listen, because he’d felt breath against his arm, held to Harry’s mouth. Faint, weak, barely there, but there all the same. He wasn’t dead. But he was so cold.

Harry’s chest shuttered with a cough, and Voldemort sighed, coming closer and touching Draco’s shoulder, one finger stroking the side of his neck. “You’re going to drown him, pet.”

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”

Voldemort leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “Do you want him to die?”

Draco stiffened and pulled his wrist away, turning to look at Voldemort. “You already took my mother and father as punishment, why are you doing this to me?”

“Draco,” Voldemort admonished. “Not everything is about you. Besides, you gave him to me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t want him, you told him so, you shouted it, up in your bedroom. Why should I have had him if you didn’t want him?”

“You were there.” Draco’s eyes widened in horror.

Voldemort smiled very slowly. “Draco, I was always there. You think I haven’t watched you? You were mine, you’ve always been mine, of course I watched you. I’ve always watched you. When you fell in love with Harry Potter, I watched you. You were hardly discreet about it and there are people in Hogwarts who are loyal to me. And imagine, you loved him and still let me take him.”

“I didn’t,” Draco whispered, eyes wide. “I wouldn’t ever have hurt him. I lied, of course I want him, I’ve always wanted him, if you watched the whole time than you had to have known that. You know I’d never hurt him, you know it!”

An indulgent smile twisted Voldemort’s lips. “Of course I know it.”

Draco’s eyes widened and he glanced at his mother, dead and wooden on the floor, and then at Harry, fighting to breathe. “What do you want from me?” he whispered.

“Surely you know,” Voldemort chided. “What have I always wanted?”

Draco closed his eyes and laid his head on Harry’s chest, listening to his faltering heart. “Me,” he said out loud, faintly.

“You’re already mine, I shouldn’t offer you anything in return for that. However, I’m feeling remarkably generous today. I can stop the bleeding, you know. Harry’s still bleeding. Would you like me to stop it?”

“Yes.”

Voldemort took Harry’s wrist gently and stroked his finger down the bloody underside, skimming over the precise knife wounds there, his other hand fingering his wand as he whispered a healing spell. He did the other next, and then almost tenderly lay his arms back on the stone slab. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air; Voldemort had cauterized the wounds.

“He’ll live now,” Voldemort said casually. “If I leave him be.”

“Will you?” It was too much to hope for, really, and Draco wished suddenly he hadn’t left his wand in his room. Harry’s lay there, but even with his own wand, Draco was no match for the Dark Lord.

“Do you want me to? After you gave him up and sent him away?”

“Please,” Draco whispered, suddenly understanding how his father could have begged Voldemort for anything. If it was important as all of this, Draco would have begged anyone in the world.

“It could be arranged.”

“What did you do to him? The spell you used on him.”

“Your father taught you some of the dark spells, Draco, don’t you recognize the markings on his arms?”

Taking Harry’s hand and tracing the seared flesh on his wrists, markings that enacted the ancient spell Voldemort had used. He did recognize them, and he whispered, “Is it painful? That spell?”

“Very. But it doesn’t last long. He screamed, however. Quite weak, the boy you chose to fall in love with, Draco. You wouldn’t have screamed.”

“Not for you,” Draco said quietly. “What do you want from me?”

“I need you,” Voldemort said, sounding businesslike. “I’ve been studying the ancient prophecies of the old families, in their original High Hakiran form, the ancient language of the prophets, and I need you.”

“‘The bearer of light shall carry to the feet of the Serpent lord, a child. That child shall deliver into the hands of the Dark One his own Destruction, choose life over love, and become His loyalist disciple,’” Draco repeated dully.

“A plebeian form of the prophecy, yes, but the idea is there. Besides. You’re mine. I own you, I’ve come to claim you.”

“And if I let you have me, you’ll let him go?”

“I will. And if you remain loyal to me, he will live. Loyalty that is achieved through gifts and bribery is useless, Draco, because a higher bribe can always be offered. Loyalty achieved by threats is the only true form because it cannot be bought away.”

Draco stared at him blankly, unable to form a single word, let alone a sentence.

“It’s true. If you’re ever disloyal to me in action, I’ll kill him without remorse. If I die, so does he, so don’t even think about betraying me that way. I’ve been trying to kill this stupid boy for seventeen years, it’ll be far easier to keep him alive, you need not fear his death by my hand, so long as you are true to me.”

“True to you. You want me to follow you, against my will, and think that it would be true loyalty.”

“In action. I care not if you are loyal in your thoughts or heart, as long as you act loyal, be loyal. Think whatever you like about me, say whatever you like about me, I care not. Just do not betray me, and your precious Harry will survive this with only a few more scars to show for it.”

Draco didn’t have to think about it. He’d lost his mother all over again and some sister he’d never met tonight, as well as his father, who had done more for him than he’d ever realized. He’d lost his family and maybe his mind as well. He repeated the words of the damned prophecy in his mind again, smiling a little, and leaning down towards Harry, not caring for the moment that Voldemort was there, that he could see.

He traced Harry’s lips and breathed, “Oh, Harry. Not for my life, I’d never give it up for mine. For yours.” He stroked Harry’s face. “We spent so long trying to prove fate didn’t exist,” he whispered, and Harry shifted a little, moaning softly. “Wake up,” Draco called softly, nuzzling the side of Harry’s face. “C’mon, love, wake up.”

Harry’s eyelids fluttered open and his eyes, glazed with weakness, flickered to Draco’s face. He smiled. “I knew you’d come for me.”

“Of course I did. I will always come for you,” Draco scoffed, very gently. He touched Harry’s face.

“I’m dead, Draco, I’m dead,” Harry whispered. “It was Voldemort, he killed me.”

Draco smiled soothingly. “You’re not, he didn’t.”

Harry touched his face, fingers stained with his own blood. “I knew you’d come for me…” he said again.

“Of course,” Draco replied again, gathering Harry up against his chest. He couldn’t help his eyes stinging with tears, and he hoped Harry wouldn’t notice. Harry rested his head weakly on Draco’s shoulder and Draco forced a soft laugh. “There you go, trying to die on me again,” he teased, smoothing his hand over Harry’s clammy face.

“I’m sleepy,” Harry mumbled.

“Sleep then, I’ll take care of you.”

“You’ll stay with me? You’ll stay here while I sleep?”

“Yes,” he lied, kissing Harry’s forehead.

“I think this is a dream,” Harry said now, voice thick with sleep.

“What?”

“This. Can’t be real. Maybe I did die and go to heaven, because I thought you didn’t love me anymore…”

Draco stiffened but didn’t say anything, just kept stroking him soothingly, waiting for him to fall asleep again.

“This could be heaven,” Harry decided; he was smiling. “I love you, you know. I didn’t say it before.”

“I know,” Draco whispered.

“Alright. And you’ll be here when I wake up?”

“Where else would I be?”

“That’s right,” Harry mumbled, closing his eyes. “Because this is heaven.” And then he drifted back to sleep.

Voldemort was shaking with silent laughter, but Draco paid him no heed. He smoothed Harry’s hair back and kissed his scar tenderly, before saying coldly over his shoulder, “I’m taking him out to his friend, I’ll be right back.”

“Oh, feel free, this is most touching,” Voldemort mocked.

Draco ignored him and lifted Harry gently, tucking his wand in his robes.

He left Voldemort behind and carried Harry up the stairs, holding him protectively. Harry didn’t wake, even as they left the manor and stepped into the frigid night.

Weasley was sleeping in the carriage, and Draco rolled his eyes. He set Harry carefully inside and touched his face gently, kissing him softly goodbye. “Not everything ends the way you think it should,” he said, repeating the words Harry had said to him that night on the tower, the first time he had let Draco know he remembered their first kiss. Then he smiled, painfully. “You’ll be alright, Harry. You’re stronger than me.”

The moonlight was dim and Harry’s blood nearly invisible in the darkness. Draco was glad, that meant Weasley wouldn’t kill him for it, wouldn’t notice it until they were back at Hogwarts.

He turned, shaking Weasley. As soon as the other boy was awake, he snarled, “Why did you bring him here?”

Weasley blinked at him, startled. “Malfoy? What? Where’s Harry?” He saw him in the carriage then and looked relieved.

“Why did you bring him here?” Draco asked again, furious.

“For you,” Weasley replied blankly. “Why else? He must be very tired, sleeping that way.”

“He is,” Draco said absently, refusing to glance at Harry. “Get him back to Hogwarts, as fast as you can, and bring him to Dumbledore. Take… Take care of him, alright?”

“Of course… Malfoy, are you alright?” Weasley looked honestly worried.

“Fine,” Draco snapped. “Just get him out of here.”

He stood up and turned to go, and Weasley caught his arm. “Malfoy. I’m… I’m sorry. About your father.”

Draco stared down at him for a long moment and then nodded. “Thank you.”

“Will you be coming back soon?”

“No.”

“What should I tell Harry, then?”

“Tell him I love—Don’t… Don’t tell him anything.” Draco swallowed heavily.

“Malfoy —”

“Get out of here! You never should have come here!” Draco snapped, slamming the door.

He watched for a long time even after the carriage had faded away into the darkness.

13 

I think God made you wise
I think he made you crazy.
That's why you can only see what's underneath.
Who knows what you see in my eyes.
Now I'm gone and I've left you with memories
And they're fragile and fading
Like great ghostly entities.
And I swear if you listen, they're sending you energy.
You are not lost, you are not wrong.
You are not that which you most fear.
Tell your demons to disperse, they are not welcome here.
And if I miss you, and if we falter, we will rendezvous
Under the water.

"I swear, Draco, winter broke last night. It shattered, do you believe a season can shatter? I didn't, but that was before everything. Now I know anything can shatter… mirrors, seasons, ice on top of lakes cracked apart by squids, even people. It's turning spring, I could feel it. That's what I meant, about winter cracking. It's like ice, so tense, and then sometimes you can feel it break. It'll be spring soon, I just thought you'd like to know… I've always liked the spring. And I felt it crack through winter last night, sitting up on our tower, and thought of you."

Harry smoothed his fingers along the edge of the parchment, staring off into space. He couldn't sleep, he rarely did anymore, and his body was feeling the strain of that. Rather disconnected, like he wasn't in it at all. His eyes looked like bruises, dark, empty black pools, and his face was pale, and too thin. He didn't much like eating, either.

"I hate you, I hate you so much you can't even comprehend. I want to beat you and hurt you and make you bleed, make you scream, for doing this to me. But then sometimes, like when I walk alone by the lake when it's cold outside, I miss you so badly that it feels like I'm shattering too. Like the winter, like the ice on the lake. Breaking into little pieces and there's no one here to pick them up again because you left me. You promised you wouldn't leave me. I hate you. I cannot help but hate you. I wish I could hate you. God. I'm falling apart."

His quill was trembling too badly to finish the letter, and Harry carefully set it aside, waiting for the ink to dry and then folding it, slipping it into a small wooden chest on the table. It was already nearly full of letters, all unread, untouched.

"Harry."

He was surprised, and exhaustion had made him jumpy. Harry leapt to his feet and spun around. It was Hermione, in her white nightgown, her hair wild around her, her eyes concerned. "It's late, Harry, why are you still up?" She had known he would be, of course. He always was.

"Can't sleep," he said, relaxing a little.

She glanced from him to the quill and blank parchment on the table, beside the small chest. "Who were you writing to?"

"No one."

She sighed. "Harry, won't you tell me what happened?"

Harry stiffened, face going even stonier than before. "No." He hadn't told them, not a thing. What they had guessed, he had no idea, but he hadn't told them what had happened, the night Ron had brought him back to Hogwarts those weeks before, broken, bloody, and asleep. He hadn't wanted them to know, because he hadn't sorted it out himself yet. He remembered going to Draco, and Draco sending him away. And then Voldemort… He didn't remember the rest clearly at all, and that was why he didn't sleep. His dreams were plagued with shadowy remembrances, and he was terrified of sleeping, terrified of reliving that.

The rest of the school had been told that Draco had transferred somewhere else, and no one else questioned it. No one else except Hermione, Ron, and Ginny, but Harry wouldn't tell them anything.

They were his riddles to decipher; Draco's riddles had always been his that way. Everything about Draco had always been his.

Hermione had come closer now, and touched his face gently. "Harry," she said, just as tenderly. "You've got to sleep. You're wasting away."

"Maybe that's how it should be," he replied distantly, a small smile flickering over his lips.

"Of course it's not," she snapped. "I could kill him for doing this to you."

For the first time, Harry's gaze sharpened, coming to rest on her face, and a hot sort of possessive fury burned there, turning his eyes from their empty black back to vibrant green. "Doing what?" he snarled in a low, warning tone.

"Hurting you," she said soothingly, stroking his face. "It's alright. Go to sleep."

"I can't." The fury was gone and now there was only that same aching pain. "I can't sleep, I have nightmares."

"I know," she whispered, hugging him. "I'll stay with you, if you like."

"Will you?" The prospect of someone there, even if only Hermione, to wake him if his nightmares started again, made Harry shake in relief. He was so tired.

"Of course," she said, taking his wrist and tugging him back up the stairs to his dorm. Everyone else was sleeping, it was late, and she waited patiently while Harry carefully put the small chest in his trunk, stripped to his boxers, and crawled into his bed. It had been this way at least once a week since she'd returned from Christmas Holidays, and she was glad that there was something she could do, even if it meant being so tired that she could hardly focus on her studies. Her grades were slipping, but she didn't care. Even class wasn't so much a priority anymore, because she was terrified that Harry was slipping away from them all.

She smoothed Harry's blanket up to his chin, ignoring him when he protested that he wasn't a child. "Sleep, Harry, I'll wake you if you start to dream," she said softly, so as not to wake anyone else in the room.

Harry smiled at her and closed his eyes. Pulling his glasses off and setting them aside, Hermione curled up on the chair beside his bed and waited for him to fall asleep. It would only be an hour or so until the dreams would start, but an hour was better than nothing, and she would be here when they did.

Falling asleep quickly, Harry slept peacefully for the first little while, and Hermione shivered in her chair, staring out the window. The snow was melting quickly, it was almost spring, and she was wearily glad. It had been weeks since Harry had come back to them broken, and surely time would heal him.

He just seemed to be fading more and more away, however.

She sighed and rested her head on her arm, closing her eyes.

An hour later, when Harry started to whimper in his sleep, she was there to wake him.

***

Saturday found Harry in the library, in the back, darkest table (sometimes when he closed his eyes, he could almost swear he could smell the faint scent of cherries), with piles of books all around him. He spent most of his time either in class, or here, researching. He didn't even know what he was looking for, he hardly remembered what had happened after Voldemort had taken him and Draco had left him. But he wanted an explanation, and if he couldn't get one for why Draco had chosen Voldemort over him, he'd get one for what, exactly, Voldemort had done to him.

All he remembered, though sometimes his dreams showed flashes of other things that had happened that night, were some hazy, cloudy images, of Voldemort, and a knife, and a few words, chanted in a soft, hissing voice, another language. And the pain, of course, but that had come and gone, like consciousness. Then there was that strange echo inside himself, almost as if he wasn't all here, but somewhere else, and if he closed his eyes, he could almost see it, this other place where the rest of him was. It frightened him and he didn't much like trying.

And then, most vivid in his mind, was Draco's face, very near, and whispering.

"C'mon, love, wake up."

"I knew you'd come for me."

"Of course I did. I will always come for you…"

But that, of course, had all been a dream. It could be nothing more, there was no other explanation. Draco had gone home, been reminded of his loyalties, lost his father, and hadn't wanted Harry anymore.

And researching whatever Voldemort had done to him was the only thing that kept Harry from considering that too closely and shattering.

Exhaustion had taken its toll on Harry, and that Saturday, alone in the library with no one to wake him, the dreams returned, and he lay helpless, his head pillowed on a stack of books.

In the dream, Draco was sitting before him, holding a knife with snakes carved into the blade. "It's not worth doing if you don't cut deep enough to make it bleed," Draco said, scoffing. He reached out and took Harry's hand and Harry glanced down; there was a trail of blood there, a tiny, bare trail.

"I did draw blood," he replied.

"Not enough. Never enough." And then Draco touched the cold blade to his hand and slid it upwards, to his wrist, turning as he did. He slipped the tip of the dagger into Harry's skin (it went in as easily as a knife into butter, or Draco into Harry) and then it was like painting a delicate painting you've painted a thousand times before. Every move was precise and deliberate and yet done with careless ease, as if every line had been memorized. And it was only after the whole thing was done that it started to bleed, blood welling up from a lattice of cuts, running hot and red down his arm. Harry looked up.

"It is enough?" he whispered.

"Never for me," Draco replied casually, before dropping the knife (snakes writhed with the flickering of light over the blade as it fell) and getting to his knees. "He's coming for you, Harry, are you ready?"

"Who? Who's coming?"

But Draco's face had begun to shift and the blood on his arm was stinging. Draco's face became longer, sharper, more classically handsome and less artistically beautiful. His eyes though, his eyes turned a strange purple and then finally red. He had become Voldemort, and when he spoke, his voice was a strange mixture of both Draco and Voldemort. He spoke in a tongue Harry had never heard. "Arr Unda ra teguan. Nayala Heath Na."

And then the blood on his arms began to burn like a fire and Harry fell back, arching his hips and tilting his head back, screaming. In and out of consciousness, awareness flickering like a candle flame, and each time he opened his eyes, Voldemort stood over him, soothing him, petting him.

And then finally the pain faded and Harry opened his eyes, even in the dream, feeling weak.

Draco sat before him, and leaned close, as if about to share a secret. "Arr Unda ra teguan. Nayala Heath Na," he whispered.

And Harry woke up with the seared scars on his wrists aching.

His face was damp with sweat, his eyes felt burnt, and he was trembling as he sat up and ran two shaky hands through his hair. He'd had that dream before.

"It's pointless," he moaned out loud, burying his face in his hands. He'd been basically flipping through random spell books looking for a ritual that involved blood, snake daggers, and strange incantations. He was getting nowhere.

Breathing heavily, he closed his eyes, whispering, "Arr Unda ra teguan. Nayala Heath Na… What is that?" Those words had been in every dream and he'd never considered them much more than random gibberish. Now he wasn't so sure.

Eyes narrowed, he left his table and went to the language section, having previously only been searching in the Dark Arts section. He quickly scanned the titles, most of which were dictionaries and English manuals and, on the last shelf, found a book simply called Translations. Harry pulled it out and returned to his desk, opening it. The pages were blank and he was reminded of Tom Riddle's diary.

Then, at the front of the book was a single word, written over and over in hundreds of different languages. "Speak."

"Alright," he said out loud, rather bewildered.

Instantly, the book fluttered open and ‘Alright' appeared on one of the blank pages. Then slowly, as though someone were writing, these words followed: ‘English. In agreement with. French: d'accord. Bulgarian: ?epeh. Spanish: de acuerdo. Italian: bene. Latin: bene habet.'

"Enough!" Harry snapped, and the writing stopped accommodatingly, stayed for about thirty seconds, and then faded away.

Licking his lips, Harry whispered, "Arr Unda ra teguan. Nayala Heath Na."

There was a long pause and Harry felt almost as if the book was hesitating, not wanting to translate it. But then, finally, the words slowly appeared. They disappeared much faster than the other, but he still had time to read the results.

‘High Hakiran. In the tongues of the ancients be warned. You Are Mine.'

It didn't bother to go into any more detail, or if it did, Harry didn't watch long enough to find out. He slammed the book shut and hurried back to the language section, searching quickly and finding a book on High Hakiran in the back. He pulled it out and read flipped through it.

‘The ancient language of the wizarding race, High Hakiran is the language prophecy was first spoken in and can be found in its purest form. Also used in higher level and ancient rituals, any word spoken in this language carries with it an ancient sort of binding magic, explaining why it was used in prophecy. There is some doubt as to whether or not it was the prophecy itself that bound mankind to its fate, or the language in which it was spoken. A dead language, it has fallen into the shadows of myth and is rarely spoken any longer, let alone understood.'

"Shadows of myth," he murmured out loud, deep in thought. "Binding magic." He shook his head. "I don't understand."

He turned his arm over and studied the scars there, identical on either wrist, both symmetrical designs that made no sense either. It would drive him mad, these riddles.

He pushed the books away, growling under his breath in frustration. He picked up a quill and began writing, because the only thing that kept him sane anymore was this writing. It was just like before, with the journal, except… except Draco never wrote back. It was still a way, however weak, to be connected to him. Even if Draco had chosen his family and Voldemort over Harry, Harry was defiantly holding onto him.

It was obsessive, he knew, and not doing much towards helping him get over Draco. But he still did it, at least once a day, folding the letters and putting them in the chest, never looking at them again.

"I feel like I'm walking on the blade of a knife. There's something twisted inside of me and it's like, if I close my eyes, I can feel…something. Something dark and shadowy and far away, but something all the same. Sometimes I pretend it's you. That you've somehow left a part of you behind, in my mind. And that if I whisper very, very softly (sometimes the softest whisper can be heard far better than angry screaming because you'd rather hear the whisper), you'll hear me. You'll feel me. You'll remember. Because I'm sure you've forgotten. Everything. But I don't whisper, because I'd rather sorta believe it's you than find out for sure that it's just me. And I've gone mad."

He slipped that letter in with all the others and closed his eyes, thinking hard. "What have you done to me?" he mumbled, tracing the marks on his arms. They itched sometimes, like they had insects climbing on them. He scratched idly, picking up the small chest of letters and leaving the library, still scratching.

He was distracted, automatically walking back towards Gryffindor Tower, lost in thought. He didn't even see Snape come up the stairs leading from the dungeons and walked right into him.

"Clumsy," Snape snapped, shoving Potter away from him. He stumbled and Snape was about to take house points from Gryffindor for nearly pushing a professor down the stairs when he noticed Harry scratching his wrist, and his eyes traced the scars there. When Weasley had come back in the middle of the night with Potter bloody and weak in that carriage, everyone had wondered what had happened, of course. Dumbledore hadn't said a word about it to anyone, punished Weasley severely for taking Potter off the grounds and let Potter himself off relatively unscathed (apparently nearly bleeding to death was punishment enough for disobeying the headmaster, though Snape disagreed). He'd been incredibly curious ever since that, especially considering that he'd lost his favourite student that same night. Surely the incidents were connected.

Snape grabbed Harry's hand and pushed his sleeve up the rest of the way, studying the scars. Then he started to laugh. "Don't tell me that boy was foolish enough to mark you," he sneered.

Harry looked away and swallowed heavily, his face slowly flushing. "It wasn't him."

Instantly looking suspicious, Snape studied his face. "Then who?"

His eyes were drawn down to Snape's left arm almost involuntarily, but nonetheless as if he could see the Dark Mark through his robes. "Who gave you yours?" he whispered spitefully, snatching his arm back.

Snape's eyes narrowed and he grabbed Harry roughly by the arm and pulled him downstairs, into the dungeons, and then into his office. "Do you have any idea what it means?" he ranted as Harry stumbled along behind him.

"I tried to research it," Harry stammered, nervousness inspired by Snape's reaction. "But I couldn't find —"

They were in Snape's office now and Snape was going through his bookshelves, slamming a few texts onto his desk. "In ancient Egypt, marriage, especially for pharaohs, was forever, in every sense of the word. When a king died, to ease his life in the underworld, his wife, servants, and even pets would be killed to journey with him. Marriage consisted of a binding ritual in which the pharaoh's intended would be bound to him in blood. The pharaoh would perform the spell, because the blood must be spilt by his hands, stain his hands. And then they'd be bound, unbreakable even through death. If he should die, she'd die simultaneously. If she should do something worthy of punishment, he could kill her with a thought. A pharaoh could not have a weak-willed wife disobeying him when he had so many other things to attend to."

Harry's eyes widened with dawning realization. "But if she died, wouldn't the pharaoh die as well?"

"Of course not. A pharaoh's life was worth a thousand wives, he would never trust it to her weak handling. It was a one-way binding spell. Don't even think that if you killed yourself now, all our problems would be solved. Voldemort never would have bound you to him if it was that simple. What I don't understand is why he did this and didn't just kill you outright when he obviously had the chance."

Harry swallowed, his stomach tightening, as even more understanding suddenly hit him. He wasn't sure he could speak, he wasn't even sure he remembered how to breathe, but he managed to whisper, "Because it wasn't me he wanted."

Snape sneered. "He's always wanted you."

"Wanted to hurt me, punish me, and what better way than this? I'm so blind, shit." He was trembling, his chest heaving almost as if he were about to vomit, though he didn't think he had the energy for that. He didn't even have the energy to cry, let alone care about cursing in front of his professor.

"What are you talking about, Potter?" Snape growled. "It can't be that bad; if he wanted you dead, you'd be dead by now. He bound you to him, he always knows where you are now, he can feel you, just as you can feel him, I'd imagine."

"I never wanted to," Harry whispered weakly. "There… I knew there was someone else in my head but I thought it was… I thought it was Draco. I didn't… I don't… Oh god."

Snape glared at him. "Potter. Honestly. Calm yourself, you're giving me a headache. What are you talking about?"

"Is there anyway to break the spell?"

"No."

Harry nodded slowly, eyes glazed as he thought through everything very quickly. "There wouldn't be," he said absently. "So if he dies, I die as well."

"Yes."

Laughing hysterically, Harry said, "That's ironic. Isn't that ironic? I mean, if you think about it, it was me. I delivered Draco to him. I… Oh fuck." He was suddenly choking.

"Potter!" Snape snapped. "You're not making sense! Stop crying, for the love of Merlin!"

Harry lurched for the door. He was sobbing but tears wouldn't come, and Snape shouted something after him, but Harry didn't listen. Still clutching his chest of letters to Draco, he ran to Gryffindor tower, slammed up the stairs and into his room, threw himself onto his bed and pulled the curtains.

Draco hadn't done it because he hadn't loved him. Hadn't done it because he wanted to. He had done it for Harry. Because Voldemort had known that Harry was his weakness and used it against him. Harry was only alive now because Draco had given himself to Voldemort. It was Harry's fault. And he'd just left him there. Gone back to Hogwarts, hating Draco for betraying him, letting Voldemort have him, not even fighting… Which had been, of course, Draco's intention.

Harry whimpered softly, his entire body trembling.

He thought about it for a long time, repeating both the words of the prophecy and the words from the spell, over and over, considering everything. There was only one thing to be done, however. No cure for the binding. No way to get Draco out.

"This is what it's come to then," he whispered out loud, a strange sort of reckless calm falling over him. He wasn't shaking anymore.

He took out a piece of parchment and began to write another letter, this one to Hermione and Ron.

"I don't want this to be one of those ‘legend says' sort of things that everyone talks about, because no matter the outcome, it isn't something worth repeating. This is what I'm doing and these are the selfish reasons I'm doing it. You've both been the best friends I've ever had and deserve to know what happened and how it came to this, and this is the whole story. Tell whomever you like, it hardly matters anymore, or it won't, by the time you read this…"

He told them the whole story. The journal and the Gobbler's ink, both properties of it, the breaking of that spell, the prophecy, everything. All he left out were a few of the more intimate things, as he didn't want to offend Ron's delicate sensibilities on that subject, as well as they were his and Draco's, private and personal.

Ending with a note to explain things to Ginny and tell Mr. And Mrs. Weasley that he'd be alright, he carefully folded the letter and set it aside. It was nearly dawn, he'd written all night.

Then, shaking again, he took one last piece of parchment and wrote another letter to Draco, folding this one and putting it in the chest. He gathered up his cloak and glanced around his dorm room one more time, studying Ron for a moment, before going down to the common room, through the portrait, and up to the owlery.

He tied the letter to Hermione and Ron to Hedwig's leg and whispered, "Give it to them after I've gone," before kissing the top of her head, letting her nip him affectionately.

He left the castle with only his cloak, his broom, and his small chest of letters.

***

Draco had forgotten all about Harry and the way he tasted like something definitively Harry that reminded Draco of sugar and cool winter nights and the way he smelled of earth and grass, like he'd just fallen off his broom in Quidditch. Not to mention the way his eyes lit up whenever Draco walked into the room, and the way his smile turned a little shy when Draco touched him. He had forgotten the way Harry laughed, like he was trying not to but simply couldn't help it, the way he slept with one hand tucked under his cheek, the way his hair always fell over his forehead and almost managed to cover his scar. He had forgotten all about it. Really, he had.

Or he should have. He had tried. Sometimes he managed not to dwell on it; after all, memories were meant to be forgotten. But whenever he managed not to dwell on those things, other things invariably came to mind, like the way his eyes widened and his breathing turned shaky when Draco was inside him, all over him, anything that involved any touching at all, really. The way his eyes changed from emerald to something deeper and darker just before they slid shut and—

So, in short, Draco was driving himself mad with remembrances. He had tried, it had been weeks, after all, but he had decided wistfully that being like that with Harry Potter was something no one could ever forget, least of all him, and had almost given up on ever forgetting. He'd lost his heart to Harry, his soul to Voldemort, his mind to both and nothing would ever change that and he'd never see Harry again.

Understanding it was easy. Accepting it was another matter entirely because sometimes he still woke up at night panting and reaching for Harry, who was never there.

During the day it was easier, pretending to be hollow, not to long for things he never should have longed for anyway. He'd known it would come to something like this.

He was only thankful that circumstances had made it easier than it could have been, being Voldemort's ‘loyal disciple' and all. Shortly after Draco's father had died, Voldemort had finally figured out there was a spy among the ranks of Death Eaters and gone into hiding until the spy could be drawn out, taking only Draco with him, as he hardly wanted to risk losing the possession he had sought for years.

So it had been rather anticlimactic, giving himself to Voldemort in an attempt to save Harry's life. He had almost expected to be sent out killing and maiming right away, and instead had languished in a small wooden house in the outskirts of some little English town, with a lovely garden and stray dogs that were always looking for scraps of food and willing to be Draco's friends should he supply them.

In fact, had he not missed Harry more than he would miss his arm or his leg or any other body part that could have been removed, it would have probably been the most relaxing, albeit lonely, time of Draco's life. Voldemort was intent upon gently persuading Draco to agree with him on all his plans and ideas, content to be patient now that he had something he knew Draco would never risk losing. So there were odd times in which he was required to sit with Voldemort and piles of old texts, while Voldemort explained the ideology behind prophecy and the eventual outcome of Draco's fate.

Draco had never believed in fate, found prophecy rather dull, but had nodded his head like an agreeable puppet because it was what was expected of him and it kept Harry safe.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, after he remembered why Harry wasn't there, he'd lay awake with wide eyes and feel almost…guiltily thrilled. Because he had the power to do something not even Dumbledore could do. Protect Harry.

After the first month or so, Voldemort had backed off, content that Draco was his and would not betray him, had been sufficiently brainwashed without even the expenditure of energy that would have resulted from any charm or Unforgivable Curse that would have led to his unconditional obedience. After all, he knew his cause was just, his ideals pure, anyone who ever had the drive to take their cause as far as Voldemort had didn't do it because they liked being evil. They did it because they thought they were right.

And of course Voldemort had convinced Draco of this. After all, the boy was young, and the young are always easily swayed. Loyalty in the young could be bought with sweet words and promises of infinite power.

After all, it had worked on little Tom Riddle, hadn't it? He'd given up his own soul for power, why shouldn't Draco do the same?

He had even explained in rather plebeian terms, he was sure, why exactly it wasn't that Voldemort wanted Draco. It was that he needed him. And surely the boy understood need and therefore forgave Voldemort for the extreme actions he had taken in convincing him. Surely.

Voldemort wasn't stupid. One didn't get to be a major threat to the freedom of the wizarding world by being stupid. He had everything figured out, everything that was in his power to comprehend: logic, intelligence, reason, the rules of war (which were always broken by the ‘dark' side and followed by the ‘light' side). The only thing he really didn't comprehend was that some things aren't controlled by logic or reason or any of it. Some things weren't controlled at all. Wild and natural, like a thunderstorm or an earthquake. That was the nature of Draco's love for Harry, something Voldemort couldn't understand because he had given up his own capacity for love years before.

And so he was content, after explaining to the Malfoy boy the nature of prophecy, that Draco was, if not eager for his fate, at least resigned to it.

It had been during the first few weeks, when Draco's eyes were dark and wide, very empty, and he didn't seem to be listening to a single thing that Voldemort said. Voldemort had changed tactics, becoming gentle, reasonable, appealing to the intelligence he knew the boy had somewhere inside him. Malfoys were known for their intelligence.

"There's a fine art to prophecies, Draco. They're never as simple as a telling of the future, because the future is never set in stone. One common destination and a thousand paths to arrive at it. Prophecies never tell of the final destination, only of a fork in the road on the journey to it. Your family prophecy was told so long ago, translated from ancient languages to English, and in the translation, a fork was forgotten. Half of the prophecy was lost, but I went back and found the original telling of it in an ancient text and translated it all very carefully, discovering the forgotten fork. The original prophecy said that you would be my loyal servant —"

He missed Draco's soft snort of derision, did not even pause to wonder if it was due to the fact that he'd mentioned ‘loyalty' or called Draco a servant.

"But the rest of the prophecy was this: Without the devotion of the child of light, the Dark Lord will burn. Something to that effect. So you see, Draco, it isn't just that I wanted you. I needed you."

He didn't know that Draco scoffed at prophecy, fate, all of it. That the only thing that had any meaning to Draco at all anymore was Harry, and by putting Harry in danger, Voldemort had firmly pushed Draco off the fence he'd been happily balancing on and straight onto the side that firmly opposed him.

However, Voldemort had always misunderstood the Malfoys and their loyalties to him. He'd always taken Lucius' dark, terrified eyes to mean that he was loyal, never even suspected him of deliberately keeping Draco to himself. Just as now, he took Draco's quiet obedience for dedication, loyalty.

Love was something Tom Riddle, whatever part of him still existed inside Lord Voldemort, had forgotten how to understand, or maybe had never known. Who needed love, really, when the world belonged to you?

But every day Draco faded, just a little bit more. And sometimes, in the middle of the night, wide-eyed and so lonely that it hurt, after he'd instinctively reached for Harry, Draco was so sure that, if he closed his eyes and thought really, really hard, he could find Harry there, touch him, talk to him, because surely Harry couldn't be that far away, surely. It felt like he was close, like he was a part of Draco, still inside him, that he'd never left.

Which was how Draco knew he'd lost his mind. Talking to invisible Harrys, lying alone at night missing him, talking to stray dogs, being Voldemort's pet… It was disgusting. It was everything he'd never wanted to become. It was… so empty that sometimes he wanted to cry.

But he didn't, of course. Because his father never cried and he owed his father that at least.

Things had blurred into a sort of morbidly boring routine for Draco, and the one thing that finally broke him out of it and made him actually take notice of something was when it started to rain one night, while he was out tossing scraps of food to one of the stray dogs.

When the first drop hit him, his eyes narrowed in annoyance. Tossing another scrap, he glanced up at the sky, which was rolling with dark clouds. The snow had been melting rapidly in the last few weeks but he hadn't noticed, and now it was only a few splotches on the ground. It had turned springtime and he hadn't even noticed.

The rain didn't annoy him any longer. A few more drops fell and hit him, and he just turned his face up to it, closing his eyes. Harry liked rain, he remembered. Springtime and rain and clover.

That night, his dreams of Harry were more intense, wilder, more vivid, and he woke up with a moan caught in the back of his throat. His eyes widened and he caught his breath.

For one long, long moment, he didn't move, didn't blink, afraid that it was a dream, but even more, he was terrified that it was real.

Harry was kneeling there, watching him with shadowed eyes.

14 

Dear my love, haven't you wanted to be with me
and dear my love, haven't you longed to be free
I can't keep pretending that I don't even know you
and at sweet night, you are my own
take my hand
we're leaving here tonight…
***

It had been relatively easy for Harry to find Voldemort, after he understood the way the binding had worked. That feeling he’d had since he’d come back from Malfoy Manor, that there was someone else in his head… That hadn’t been madness and it hadn’t been Draco. It had been Voldemort, in his mind, violating that as fully as he’d violated everything else of Harry’s. Harry just had to close his eyes and reach out for that thread of connection to know where Voldemort was, like the homing instinct of a bird. He took his broom and flew for hours, south. The further he flew, the milder the weather grew, the less snow spotted the ground below, and when he finally arrived at the small English village he just knew Voldemort was hiding in, there was barely any snow left at all. If winter had just broken into spring at Hogwarts, it had been spring for at least a week here.

It was raining, and he was already soaked when he landed his broom and gazed calmly at the small house on the edge of town. It was modest for Voldemort’s standards, and Harry wondered idly why Voldemort would choose lodgings like these. A house meant to blend into a village, draw no notice. He knew that Voldemort was there all the same, he could feel it. His skin was tingling with heightened awareness, the scar on his forehead ached, the scars on his wrists itched. Voldemort was there.

He dropped his broom in the grass outside of the house and, still holding the chest of letters, walked up to the door. He could feel the security charms and curses pressing against him as he walked, brushing against him, like another layer of skin, snakeskin, but he didn’t pause. He was Voldemort’s now, Voldemort had marked him. The spells would not harm him and he knew it.

The locking charms on the door would not keep him out either. He was of Voldemort now. They fell open as easily for him as they did for Voldemort himself. Harry walked into the house unchallenged.

Unsure of himself now, Harry paused and glanced around before walking nervously towards the staircase.

The house was silent and he wondered idly if Dark Lords slept. Confident that he was well protected in this house surrounded by nasty security charms, he probably slept very well indeed.

Harry sneered as he made his way up the stairs. Voldemort wasn’t his primary concern, he had to make sure Draco was alright, if he was even here.

He probably should have questioned how he knew exactly which room to find Draco in and that he wasn’t quite sure where Voldemort was, but Harry didn’t. All he cared about was that Draco was there, he knew he was there, he was alive, and Harry was about to see him for the first time since that night at Malfoy Manor.

Opening the door silently and slipping into the dark room, his eyes immediately focused on the bed. Soft, hazy silver moonlight filtered through dark rain clouds that obscured the stars, spilt across the floor in puddles, and up unto the bed as well.

Draco lay there, sleeping, and Harry started trembling. He knew what a light sleeper Draco was and didn’t want to wake him just yet, so he silently made his way to the bed, dropping to his knees beside it.

He looked well enough. Draco’s face was still recognizable, pale, though he looked even thinner than he had before. His hair was a little longer and almost messy, as if he’d stopped caring what it looked like. The quilt was tangled around his hips, his chest bare, and one of his hands was resting on his stomach, the other stretched out beside him, as though he were reaching for something. He was breathing deeply, his eyelids fluttering as he dreamed.

Harry wanted to touch him, just to be sure that he was real. Hardly daring to breathe for fear of waking him, Harry didn’t dare touch him. He just wanted to watch him, because this had to last forever, it was all they’d have.

Draco could have been mistaken for dead, but for the rise and fall of his chest, his soft breathing, and Harry’s eyes narrowed carefully as he watched him, wanting to memorize the way the silver moonlight touched him, the way his eyelashes lay against his pale skin.

With a low whimper, Draco sucked in a deep breath, shifting restlessly, and Harry wondered if he was having a nightmare, and had just resolved to wake him, when Draco’s eyes flew open and locked on his face, a dark, hungry sort of look in them that was quickly overcome by panic.

The first look registered more with Harry, he knew that look. That fierce sort of possessive darkness, the heavy breathing, he recognized it because he’d had the same look in his eyes every time he’d woken up from a dream of Draco. The same look Draco had had every time he wanted Harry, was touching or kissing Harry.

Not a nightmare after all, then.

Draco opened his mouth to speak, probably to swear or curse, and Harry grinned recklessly and fell onto the bed, half on top of him, and kissing him, hard, distracting him from the questions and accusations he knew were coming.

Harry kissed him for a long time, possessively, almost angrily, weeks of fury and frustration taking their toll. Moaning, Draco kissed him back, his fingers tangling in Harry’s hair, his breathing so heavy that Harry feared he was going to pass out. He ran his trembling hands over Draco’s face, through his hair, over his shoulders, tracing the ridges of muscles on his chest and belly that he’d memorized but hadn’t touched in weeks. Draco didn’t caress him, he just held him close, desperately kissing him back, his heart pounding erratically.

Pulling back finally, panting, Harry breathed, “I missed you.”

Draco’s eyes flew open, dark and aching. He pushed at Harry’s chest suddenly, panicking. “What are you doing here?” he hissed, sitting up and running a hand through his hair.

“Where else should I be?” Harry asked indulgently, tracing Draco’s features.

“I hate you,” Draco lied weakly.

Harry smiled. “You think I’ll fall for that again? How stupid do you think I am? You couldn’t hate me anymore than you hate yourself.”

His eyes were closed again and Draco was shaking. “You’ve got to get out of here, Harry, it isn’t safe. Why did you even come here, you should have stayed where you were safe!”

“I came because you’re mine, Draco, and he can’t have you.”

“Sometimes you don’t get a choice in the matter!”

“I’m sick of people telling me to lie back and let fate take care of everything. All my life I have, Draco, until you. You don’t expect me to start again now, do you? I know why you’re doing this, I know what spell he used on me, and I’m not letting me be the thing that forces you into this, that destroys you. I’m not your weakness, Draco, I refuse to be. I will not leave you here with him.”

“What are you going to do?” Draco whispered. His anger was gone, replaced by an intense fear, like nothing he’d ever felt before. “Please, Harry, just go.”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“You can’t, Harry. You think if it was that easy, he wouldn’t be dead already? Besides, if… if he dies, so do you.”

“If I die,” Harry said quietly, solemnly taking Draco’s hand and holding it firmly. “You’re free.”

Draco flinched. “No.”

“One of us has to die, Draco, to end this. I’m not playing by his rules anymore. Don’t make it both of us,” Harry begged. “This is the way it’s got to be.”

“It’s always been both of us! All or nothing, Harry, you know that. How would I live without you?”

“You will, Draco, I promise you will. You’re strong.”

“Not as strong as you. Don’t leave me.”

“You left me. That night at your house, you left me. You didn’t even explain…”

“I let you go. There’s a difference. It was for your own good.” Draco kissed him desperately.

Rage at himself for not realizing everything sooner, fury at Draco for letting him go, trying to protect him, tore through Harry, and he hissed, “If you ever, ever, do anything like that, for my own good, ever again, Draco, I swear…” Up until now, his face and tone had been furious. A devilish glint lit up his eye and a slow smile spread across Harry’s lips. “I’ll never shag you again.”

“Don’t you get it? I can do what they can’t. I can keep you safe! The one thing your parents couldn’t do for you, the one thing Dumbledore failed at, the one thing Weasley and Granger are too weak to do. I can do it. I can protect you.” Harry’s face was still resolute, and Draco grabbed his hands, pleading. “You think if it worked that way, I wouldn’t have done it for you, months ago? If I died, Voldemort wouldn’t succeed. But I didn’t, because any life is better than none at all. Even… Even a life without you.” His eyes widened and Draco glanced away, because the words had burned like ashes in his throat and even Harry knew it was a lie.

He trailed his fingers down Draco’s cheek. “It’s my life, Draco. To live with you, or give for you.”

“Don’t,” Draco whispered, his voice breaking. “I won’t let you.”

“Not everything ends the way you think it should.”

Draco’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “If you loved me —”

“Don’t,” Harry snapped. “He’s hunted me my entire life, Draco. This time he went too far. This time I’m hunting him. He’s mine. I’ll tear him apart, or die trying, and either way, I’ll win, because he won’t have you anymore. You’ll be free, that’s all that matters now. I wasn’t really living before you anyway, and after you left me, I remembered what that was like, not really living, not feeling. Only it was a thousand times worse because you’d taught me what really living felt like. I’d rather be dead than live without you.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You’re so stupid, Potter. You and your bloody hero complex. You can’t save everyone.”

“What’s the point in being able to save anyone at all if I can’t save you?”

Startling even himself, Draco laughed harshly. “You know, Snape was right after all, when he said you’ve got a death wish.”

Harry rolled his eyes and smiled. “Forget Snape. Forget everything. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

“Harry —”

One finger touched his lower lip and Draco stopped talking, swallowing a shaky breath. Harry traced his lip and then kissed him gently, stroking his face, trying to soothe him, make him understand. It was painful, a more painful good-bye than words ever could have been because Draco couldn’t fight it, couldn’t argue with it. He’d never been able to resist Harry when he kissed this way.

“Where is he?” Harry whispered against Draco’s lips.

“I won’t tell,” Draco replied, his eyes still closed.

“Then I’ll find him myself.”

He climbed off the bed and strode resolutely towards the door. Cursing savagely, Draco leapt off the bed, grabbing his trousers up off the floor and jerking them on, even while hopping after Harry, who tossed one faintly amused smile over his shoulder and slipped out of the room.

“He’s not here!” Draco snapped finally.

Harry froze and turned slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Not here? He’s got to be here, I followed him here, he’s in my head. He’s here.”

“He’s not. You think you would still be alive if he was here?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t risk losing you by hurting me.”

“Exactly. So all of this is pointless. He’ll just laugh at you, Harry.”

“Maybe at first.” Harry frowned, considering. “He’s really not here?”

“He left before sunset, won’t be back until just before dawn he said. He’s meeting Wormtail, they’re trying to identify the spy, no one knows we’re here, we’ve been hiding. Not even Wormtail.”

Harry considered for a moment. “It won’t be that long then, the sun’s almost rising. I can wait.”

Grabbing his arm and spinning him around roughly, Draco snarled, “You think I’ll let you? You’re out of your fucking mind. Get out of here, he never has to know you were here!”

“I’ll only leave if you come with me,” Harry replied easily.

“I can’t,” Draco argued. “You know I can’t, it’ll be disloyal, he’ll kill you. Harry, I won’t be able to stop him from killing you or you’ll die anyway because I was disloyal! Don’t you understand? You can’t put me in this position.”

Harry kissed him quickly. “I know you won’t be able to stop him, that’s the point.”

“I could curse you,” Draco threatened. “I could but the full-body bind on you and get you out of here before he gets back.”

Harry smiled indulgently. “You left your wand in your bedroom.”

“Stop smiling at me! This isn’t a game, Harry!”

“I know. It’s dead serious.” He walked past Draco and down the stairs, into the front room, where a couch and a large armchair sat before an empty hearth. Draco followed him. “Voldemort sits there?” Harry asked, pointing to the armchair.

“Yes.”

Harry nodded once before throwing himself back into Voldemort’s chair. There was a table against the wall with a few glasses and a bottle of scotch. Harry summoned it with a flick of his wand and poured himself a drink, and then one for Draco, who collapsed weakly on the couch and stared at him.

“You really do have a death wish,” he whispered.

Harry smiled rather recklessly and sipped the scotch. It was going to his head, this recklessness, almost like alcohol. The knowledge that no matter the outcome here, he couldn’t lose, it was an intoxicating idea. He couldn’t lose because no matter what, after tonight, Draco would be free. After years of fearing his destiny, Harry wasn’t afraid any longer. It was in his hands now, for once he was in control. Maybe he was going to die, but he was doing it on his terms.

He’d never been reckless before. Oh, he’d done reckless things, but never with the intent to be reckless. Understanding of that recklessness had only come in hindsight. This was walking in with wide-eyed understanding that he wouldn’t be coming out.

It was exhilaration in the purest sense of the word. Either way, what had been years of worry, darkness, and terror… It ended tonight, at Harry’s hand.

“Drink up,” Harry said, jerking his head at Draco’s glass of scotch. “You look like you could use something to calm your nerves.”

Draco slammed his glass on the table. “This isn’t a fucking game, Harry! He’ll kill you.”

“Not right away,” Harry said easily. “I suspect I’ll have to make him really mad first. Besides, I’m going to try to kill him first, you know. That way he’s gone and everyone else is safe, not just you.”

“He’ll hurt you! And I won’t be able to stop him!”

“That’s the point, Draco. I don’t want you to stop him. I don’t want you to do anything. I don’t even want you to be here.” He took another sip and studied Draco in the darkness before flicking his wand at the hearth and lighting a fire.

Draco swallowed heavily and left the couch, kneeling in front of Harry and speaking very gently, as if speaking to the mentally ill. “Alright, Harry,” he said soothingly, taking Harry’s hand and squeezing it. “I understand, I do. He killed your parents, he hurt you, he terrorized you, all of that, and you’re angry.”

“He took you away too,” Harry reminded him.

“Yes. But it’s nothing to lose your head over. Calm down, go back to Hogwarts, talk to Dumbledore, even Snape if you want to. We’ll think of another way. Alright? This isn’t necessary.”

Harry smiled indulgently at him. “There is no other way, Draco.”

“Then you’ll just let him win?” Draco cried. “Let him have you?”

“It won’t be him winning because…” Harry frowned thoughtfully. “Because it’ll be my choice. Besides, he doesn’t want me dead anymore, he wants you. You could run with me. We could go away and leave nothing behind except our dirty glasses. He’d never find us.”

“And how far would we get before he realized that I’d gone with you and killed you with a thought?” Draco growled. “You’ve lost your mind. You’re mad. I should knock you out and sent you to St. Mungo’s, maybe they can sort you out.” He got up and began to pace the room furiously. “It’s disgusting! You’re so weak! Stupid, I’ve always known you were stupid, Harry, but I didn’t know you were mad as well!”

Harry sighed got to his feet and placing both hands bracingly on Draco’s shoulders. “Draco,” he said gently. “It’s alright to be scared.”

Scowling furiously, Draco glanced away. “I’m not,” he lied.

Harry kissed his cheek and rested his head on Draco’s shoulder, arms wrapping around him. “Alright,” he agreed, if only to soothe him. “I’m scared, if it helps any. I mean… I don’t… I don’t want to leave you.” His voice cracked a little. “But fuck it, if I can’t have you neither can he.”

He suddenly realized that Draco was trembling, and Harry took him gently by the hand, tugging him back to the large armchair, curling up on it and pulling Draco down beside him. Letting himself collapse against Harry, Draco rested his head on the other boy’s chest, his ear over Harry’s heart. Wrapping an arm around him and resting his cheek on Draco’s head, Harry closed his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired.

***

“Where the hell have you been?” Hermione snapped, and Ron stopped, eyes widening as his face flushed guiltily.

“I… I was…” The truth was that he had been out after hours meeting with Pansy, of course, but he’d hardly confess that to her.

“Forget it,” she snarled. “I don’t care if you were out with Pansy, I honestly don’t.” Strangely enough, it was no longer a lie. She’d recently had her priorities shifted drastically. “Harry’s gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?” Ron asked, frowning. He and Hermione had both been worried about Harry in the weeks since Malfoy’s father had died and he had gone to live with a relative or something. Harry had never explained, and Ron had personally decided that Malfoy had attacked him or something that night at the manor. That they’d broken up or something, which would explain why they no longer kept in touch. He would have killed Malfoy for it, had he known where to find him. As it was, he could only watch Harry as he went about life with dark, bruised eyes.

“After Malfoy,” Hermione snapped, shoving a thick wad of parchment at him. “He left this.”

“Fucking Malfoy,” Ron snarled. “Did he do something? Why now? I thought he was getting over it. I never should have brought him there.”

“Ron,” Hermione said, her face very grave. “He explained it all in the letter, but there isn’t enough time for you to read it, I’ll explain on the way. We’ve got to go after him.”

“What the hell did Malfoy do this time?”

She touched his face and smiled painfully. “He didn’t do anything,” she whispered, sounding as if she were about to cry. “He never did anything. I’ll explain, but we’ve got to go after him.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“No. I was hoping… Maybe Pansy would know where to find him?”

Ron frowned. “She might. Come on, and explain on the way.”

She told him all she’d read in the letter as they made their way down to the Slytherin dungeon, about the Gobbler’s Ink and what had really happened that night at the Manor, the binding spell, all of it. “He’s only just figured it out for himself,” she whispered. “The spell, and why Malfoy said all he did at the Manor. He’s gone after him. He doesn’t intend to come back.”

Ron, who’d whispered the password so Hermione wouldn’t overhear it (Pansy had made him swear not to tell anyone), glanced over his shoulder at her, horrified. “What?”

“He’s gone to kill Voldemort for daring to take Draco from him, and Snape’s told him that if Voldemort dies, so does he. We’ve got to bring him back before he does something stupid.”

Aware of the urgency now, Ron led the way into the empty common room and left Hermione there, running up the stairs to Pansy’s room. When she came down the stairs five minutes later in her nightdress, she glared at Hermione, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she snapped. “Ron told me you needed me.”

Hermione didn’t waste time and said bluntly, “Do you know where Draco is?”

Instantly, Pansy looked wary. “No. Why?”

“Because we need to find him and I figured if anyone knew where he was, it would be you.”

“Well I don’t, so if Potter’s having some melodramatic snit and wants to take it out on Draco, he can just forget it, because I won’t tell.”

“The fact that you won’t tell implies you’ve got some information you’re keeping secret,” Hermione snarled.

“Pansy,” Ron said, more gently. “It’s important, do you know where he is? Harry’s gone after him.”

“Gone after…” Pansy trailed off, her eyes widening. “What is he, mad? Draco’s gonna kill him, if You–Know-Who doesn’t first!”

“You know he’s with Voldemort?” Hermione asked, eyes narrowing. “Dumbledore told everyone he’d gone to live with relatives.”

Pansy looked at her in silence for a long moment, tucking her long hair behind her ear. “Only those who didn’t know any better would have believed it. My family and the Malfoys have known each other forever. He has no relatives.”

“And you just let him go? With Voldemort?” Hermione whispered in shock. “I thought he was your friend.”

“What was I supposed to do?” she snapped. “Dumbledore told me there was nothing to be done, that Draco was safe for now, until he could think up some way to get him back without… without…” She glanced at Ron nervously.

“Without killing Harry,” Ron finished for her in a shocked whisper. “Pansy, why didn’t you tell me?”

“They told me it was important that Harry didn’t know. So that he didn’t do something stupid like this…”

“Can the binding spell be broken?” Ron asked her urgently.

“No,” she whispered.

“It doesn’t matter, none of this matters, just get me to him before he does something stupid,” Hermione cried, interrupting them. “Do you know where he is?”

“No,” Pansy said quietly. “But I can find him. There’s a game we used to play as children, like hide-and-go-seek. I still remember the spell for it.”

“Spell?” Hermione asked, frowning. “Can’t wizard children do anything without magic?”

Pansy sneered. “It’s going to help us now, isn’t it?” she snapped. “Besides, usually it only works as children, during the game, but… Draco and I were friends, we saw each other nearly every day, and he always used to tell me he was going to run away from home. So we… sort of made the spell permanent. So if he ran away, I could always find him. I bet he’s forgotten.” Her face was a little flushed, and Ron was looking suspicious and a little jealous.

“Right, just do the spell,” Hermione snapped.

Pansy, not looking at Ron, nodded and went back upstairs to get her wand. She returned, still in her white nightdress, though looking more awake now. She pushed some chairs and tables away from the center of the room, clearing a large space, and pointing her wand at it. “Finden sie Draco,” she whispered, and there was a ripple on the stone floor, the veins of quartz in the old granite rearranging themselves into a type of map, a glowing star in the center.

All three of them studied it for a long moment, before Hermione said, “I know where that is. It’s a few hours away from my home.”

“That’s hours away,” Ron groaned.

“We’ll fly to Hogsmeade and Floo from there to my house,” Hermione said. “Then fly from there. It won’t take too long.”

“I’m going with you,” Pansy decided, giving them no time to argue. She ran up to her room to get dressed.

They left a few minutes later, sneaking out of the castle and mounting their brooms. Ron had his Firebolt Hermione and Harry had got him for his last birthday and Pansy, who had a Nimbus 2001, had stolen Draco’s Firebolt to lend to Hermione. They made fast progress to Hogsmeade, Floo’d with their broomsticks in hand, and dawn was just lightening the sky when they took to the skies again.

***

“I’ll fight you, you know,” Draco said quietly. They’d sat there together for a while in silence, weeks of being apart and missing each other so badly that it was hard to breathe melting into some sort of panic, all the more painful. Draco felt like he was caught in some sort of whirlwind he couldn’t escape. He’d lost all control of everything.

“I’ve always known that when it came down to it, we’d be on opposite sides.”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “That’s not true. It was always us against the world, Harry. We’re on the same side here… You’re just… trying to be a sodding hero again. And I’m not going to let you.”

Harry kissed the top of his head and whispered soothingly, “Of course not.”

It was quiet for a moment, except for the cracking of flames in the hearth, and finally, Draco shifted a little and said, “How are you going to do it? Kill him, I mean. You don’t know any spells strong enough to kill him, and he’s got himself wrapped up in so many spells to prevent that sort of attack that it’s impossible.”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied thoughtfully. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. It’s all been easier than it should have been so far.”

“Do you even know any spells to kill? They don’t teach that at Hogwarts.”

“Do you know his weaknesses?”

“Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. It would be disloyal and what if he overheard?”

Harry nodded and then, tightening his hold possessively on Draco, he stared into the fire. “Arrogance, I think,” he whispered out loud. “His weakness is that he thinks he hasn’t got one. He thinks everyone else is weaker than him.”

“You are weaker than him.”

“Not everything comes down to how many anti-Avada Kedavra spells you’ve wrapped yourself in, nor how many death charms you know. There are other ways to kill.” Harry trailed off, frowning. There was a building pressure in his head, quickly blooming into pain, a pain he recognized. His scar was slowly beginning to burn. “He’s close,” he whispered, and Draco lifted his head, eyes wide.

“How do you know?”

Before he could reply, Harry hissed a painful breath through his teeth, his scar burning worse than ever, the burn marks on his arm itching like fire was dancing along his skin. He jerked away and turned his face towards the doorway. Voldemort stood there, looking almost pleasantly surprised to see him.

Draco scrambled off the chair, his face pale. “I didn’t let him in,” he said quickly. “I didn’t betray you. I wasn’t disloyal, I —”

“Draco,” Harry said quietly, climbing out of the chair and taking Draco’s hand. “Shh.”

“You’re looking better than when I saw you last,” Voldemort greeted finally, smiling in a vaguely polite manner. “But honestly, I can’t for the life of me imagine what would have brought you here.”

“Can’t you?” Harry asked in a deceptively casual tone.

“You seem to be under the mistaken impression that you mean anymore to me than the irritating son of a foolish father and a Mudblood mother.”

Harry smiled sharply. “That’s funny, your blood’s just as dirty as hers was.”

“She died for hers,” Voldemort said coldly, all amusement gone from his face.

Shrugging easily, Harry said silkily, “And you’ll die as well, though not for something as trivial as your bloodline. Something far more personal.”

“Insolent boy,” Voldemort sneered, walking past him and picking up Draco’s abandoned drink. “You think you’re anything more to me than an irritating child?”

“You think you’re anything more than a Mudblood on a power trip?” Harry countered sharply.

“Harry,” Draco snapped.

Harry turned to him with wide eyes and an innocent smile. “Yes, Draco?”

“Get out of here.”

Turning back to Voldemort with a bright smile, Harry ignored him. “I think it’s rather amusing, personally,” he drawled casually.

Voldemort’s eyes narrowed, and he fought to hide his scowl, lifting the glass to his lips. “What is?”

“The fact that you tried to hide the fact that you were too weak to kill me by pretending you did it on purpose, that it was all some master plan. It’s pathetic, really.”

“Again, Potter, this has nothing to do with you. Perhaps you had some illusion of grandeur, thinking you were my arch nemesis or something equally respectful, but you were never that to me. Just an annoyance. A little boy playing at being hero who could be exterminated at any time.”

“Like when I was a baby and I nearly destroyed you?” Harry hissed.

“Lucky chance,” Voldemort answered lightly. “Having nothing personally to do with you.”

“Like at the Triwizard Tournament? You couldn’t even beat me in a duel,” Harry laughed.

Voldemort slammed the glass down so hard that it cracked. “That,” he snarled, “was no doing of yours but a coincidence. It was your wand!”

Harry nodded sagely. “Of course, and none of this has anything to do with the fact that you’re just too weak to kill a useless boy like me.”

Voldemort did smile now, though it was by no means a pleasant smile. “It’s not going to work, you know,” he said in a conversational tone. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“No,” Harry said brightly. “You’re not. I’m going to kill you.”

Voldemort laughed, and Draco snapped, “That’s enough, Harry, I’ve had enough of this. Just go home, you couldn’t kill him if you tried and you know it! Just go! If it was that easy, he’d be dead by now!”

For the first time, Voldemort focused his attention on Draco. “That nearly sounds like disloyalty,” he said silkily, and Draco snapped his mouth shut with a furious scowl.

Harry’s eyes narrowed and he pulled his wand out of his pocket. “What sort of loyalty is bought anyway?” he snarled.

Voldemort turned back to him, all amusement gone from his face. “I grow tired of your games, Potter,” he spat. “I will not kill you, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you. But I’ll give you another chance, just because I fear Draco wouldn’t enjoy watching me bleed you again. Get out of here now and you go unscathed.”

Harry didn’t reply. He still had the scotch glass in his hand and, desperate to provoke Voldemort, he threw it at him. It hit the wall behind him and shattered.

“Harry!” Draco snarled, marching forward and grabbing Harry roughly by the arm, dragging him towards the door. “That’s it, I’m not letting you do this, so stop, you’re being a prat, get out of here.”

Voldemort’s wand was in his hand now, and he hissed something low between his teeth. Draco was suddenly torn away and slammed into a wall across the room, a low moan of pain escaping his lips.

“Suddenly I want him to stay,” Voldemort whispered, watching Harry like a snake.

Harry was staring at Draco, wide-eyed and stunned. He’d never expected Draco to get hurt by this.

Cold rage made his eyes darken as he turned back to Voldemort, clutching his wand in whitened fingers, his lips pulled back over his teeth in a silent snarl. “If you ever hurt him again —”

“Come now, Harry,” Voldemort chided. “Do you still think you’re in control here? You haven’t been in control of anything for your entire life, why should that change now, just because you’ve decided you want to die? I am not going to kill you, but I can certainly make you wish you were dead. Crucio.”

Pain erupted inside Harry’s body, but he’d expected it and, having been under the curse before, knew how it felt, how it started like a nail running along exposed nerves, the agony working up his body to from his toes before taking his mind last, making it nearly impossible to breathe and think. He fell to his knees, his jaw locked shut against the pain, refusing to scream. He didn’t know how long it lasted, was blind and deaf to anything going on around him except the pain, and when it faded, he was lying on his side on the floor, his body twitching a few times, bathed in sweat, and Draco was there, calling his name in a panic-stricken tone, kneeling beside him.

Harry shoved him away and got shakily to his feet, a lopsided, grim smile on his lips. “Creative,” he rasped, ignoring that his voice was rough from the pain. “Rely on Voldemort to always fall back on the Unforgivables. Honestly, I expected better.”

Voldemort was furious at that, his anger all the more blinding because Harry dared to defy him, even after that curse, that he hadn’t broken. “You want creativity?” he snarled. “Diffindo.” He snapped his wand like a whip, and there was a crack in the air, the force of the spell hitting Harry in the face, tearing into it like a clawed hand, ripping three long, deep gashes. The force of it knocked him off his feet and left him stunned, blood running from the cuts in a hot stream.

He was on his hands and knees, fighting to get to his feet, when suddenly Draco was kneeling before him, touching his bloody face with trembling fingers. “Stop it, stop it, please, Harry. Don’t you understand that losing you would destroy me more than he ever could?”

Harry turned and looked solemnly at Voldemort, who was watching them with a smug, self-satisfied smile. He turned back to Draco with a small, gentle smile, shaking his head a little. Drops of blood splattered the floor. “No,” he whispered. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“If I have to be strong, so do you. Don’t do this.”

Harry just smiled and got to his feet. “Petrificus Totalus!”

The spell hit Voldemort and made him stumble a tiny bit, but nothing more. He was laughing. “A first year body bind?” he sneered. “You think that’s strong enough to stop me?”

While he was gloating, Harry snapped his wand and shouted, “Stupefy!”

It was only slightly more effective, in that it stopped the arrogant laughing. There were other spells after that, spells which Harry absently tried to duck or block, though he put more effort into trying to think up anything that would be effective. He was tossed around, bruised, and bleeding more than ever, having only managed to cast a few weak attempts at leg-locker charms, conjured a few snakes which were quickly ignited by Voldemort, and sent one silver stag prancing about the room. It was a ridiculously unfair fight and he knew it. That wasn’t the point, however. The point was in not letting Voldemort incapacitate him instead of kill him. Draco was foolish enough to remain loyal to Voldemort in defense of him even if he were no more than a mindless shell, Harry was sure. As long as he still breathed, Draco would be foolish enough to let Voldemort control him.

“Cassesprit,” Voldemort hissed, and Harry ducked quickly to avoid it. After all, having his mind broken wouldn’t solve a thing.

Draco was shouting again, though Harry wasn’t really listening. He was trying desperately to think of a spell that could be in anyway effective. Draco shoved passed him suddenly and Harry watched him almost numbly as he ran from the room. For one wild moment, he thought Draco was running away, but the other boy took off up the stairs instead of out the door, still cursing savagely under his breath.

His eyes narrowed, Harry resolved to go after him and turned back to Voldemort, shouting “Incendio!” as he ran from the room. His wand had swung wildly and, rather than a small, sedate fire that usually resulted when that spell was used while pointed at a hearth, the armchair, curtains, and wooden walls burst into flames.

Harry didn’t pause to see if it slowed Voldemort down at all. He was worried about just what Draco was up to, and he took the stairs three at a time, slamming into Draco in the hall outside the room he’d originally found him in, nearly knocking him over. Draco had fetched his wand.

“What are you doing?” he panted, his hands braced on Draco’s chest to steady himself. His face was still bleeding, his body felt bruised all over, torn and nearly broken. He probably had a few broken ribs judging from the lancing pain that tore through him whenever he breathed, and Draco had to practically hold him up.

He leaned close, his hands clasped around Harry’s arms, and hissed, “Sommeilmort. When I squeeze your hand, point your wand at him and say that, alright? Fuck, Harry, you’re crazier than I thought, coming into this with charms to make him dance or switch his knees around. Honestly.”

“But… but it’ll be disloyal…” Harry gasped.

“We’ll deal with that after, hopefully it’ll happen too fast for him to kill you before it hits him. I think both of us casting it will make it strong enough to harm him. Come on.”

Draco tightened his hold on Harry’s hand and tugged him down the stairs again, where Voldemort was still extinguishing all the flames, looking quite irritated. If the Muggle fire department showed up to deal with this, it would mean a lot of wasted time, killing them all. He didn’t have the patience for little boy dueling tactics.

Draco raised his wand and glanced at Harry, squeezing his hand tightly, knowing this could backfire horribly and result in Voldemort killing Harry instantly, but he couldn’t stand to see Harry hurt anymore without doing something. “Sommeilmort!” he shouted, Harry’s voice echoing his.

There was a crack in the air and a flash of almost soothing pale blue light, and he waited with breathless anxiety, his eyes trained on Voldemort, waiting for either the Dark Lord or Harry to crash to the ground.

Voldemort fell; he wasn’t breathing.

Draco let out a shaky breath and dropped Harry’s hand.

“He’s dead?” Harry cried, startled. “Why aren’t I… If he’s…”

“He’s not. It’s a Bewitched Sleep, I learned it the summer after fourth year. It’s what Dumbledore used on the people he put in the lake during the second challenge.” Draco was feeling incredibly weak, he just wanted to collapse to the ground and cry. “You’re not dead because it happened too fast for him to kill you, and now he’s dreaming and has forgotten all about this fight. I don’t know how long it will last on him though. He could wake up at anytime.”

Harry was walking around Voldemort, studying him. The ground was scarred with scorch marks, and it was giving him a vague, hopeful idea. “Right then,” he said calmly, glancing up at Draco and idly wiping his bloody face on his sleeve. “I’d best hurry.”

“With what?”

“Killing him. Before he wakes up.” Even as he spoke, Harry was walking from the room, determination in his stride. He glanced out the window into the back garden, the predawn light casting a ghostly glow over it. There was a shed out there, and he asked, “Did Muggles live here, before you and Voldemort came here?”

“Kill him?” Draco cried. “But then you’ll die! Honestly, stop being so dense, Harry, we’re not going to kill him. We’ll keep him in the bewitched sleep forever. Drop him to the bottom of the ocean while we look for a way to break the binding spell he used on you. He can’t kill you if he’s like this forever.”

Harry glanced at him indulgently. “You said yourself that it won’t last forever, he’s too strong for that. I’m going to kill him, Draco. Now, Muggles used to live here, didn’t they?”

“Yes,” Draco replied, feeling numb. Even after he’d helped him, Harry was still going ahead with his plan? “It’s a summer house, but Voldemort killed the people that lived here months ago, before Christmas, and took it over to hide out until he’d drawn the spy out.”

“Summer home. Good.”

Harry let himself out the back door. It was still raining and the cool rain soothed his torn face and aching body as he limped to the shed, unlocking the padlock with a flick of his wand and then lighting the tip of it as he stepped inside. It was cold and dusty, a forgotten fishing boat in the back, and a few bikes with rusted chains. In the corner was a plastic tank of gas for the little boat.

He picked up the gas and carried it back into the house. Standing at the door and frowning, Draco watched him. “What’s that?” he asked.

“Voldemort’s weakness. He never thought the Muggles could ever produce anything that could hurt him so he didn’t ward himself against them. Hopefully. It’s petrol.”

“How is that going to kill him?” Draco growled, following Harry back into the main room and watching as he splashed the gasoline over Voldemort’s unconscious body and then liberally around the room, on the armchair, the floor, the walls.

“It’s extremely flammable,” Harry replied with a shrug. “I’m sure even dark wizards burn well. It’s how they used to kill witches and wizards in the old days, isn’t it?”

“They’d cast a spell so they didn’t feel the flames,” Draco whispered, watching in horror as the liquid splashed onto the floor and over Harry as well.

“Which just means they weren’t immune to the flames themselves,” Harry said thoughtfully, dropping the empty tank. “He can’t protect himself from the flames when he’s out like that.” Finally, Harry glanced up at Draco. “I’d better light it before he wakes up.”

Draco laughed desperately. “I told you, I’d fight you, you’re not doing this. I won’t let you kill him, Harry, you’ll die as well.”

Irritated, Harry snapped, “You think if you keep saying that, it’ll make me change my mind? I know what it’ll mean if he dies, Snape told me, alright?” He jerked his sleeves up to show Draco the seared scars on his wrists, which were covered now in blood and bruises. “I’ve studied the scars he marked me with. I know what it means and it doesn’t matter! Nothing matters except that he doesn’t have you anymore.” Harry grabbed Draco by the arm and jerked him close, kissing him hard. It tasted of blood and gasoline. “Now stop it, Draco. There’s no other way and this isn’t making it easier.” He stepped back and smiled gently. “You’ll be fine, Draco. Wait here.”

He hurried up to Draco’s room and found the small chest of letters on the floor. He picked it up, his hands leaving smudges of dirt and blood on it, and carried it back to Draco, pushing it into his hands. “Take this and go,” he said.

“No,” Draco snapped, though he instinctively took the chest. “What is it?”

“It’s yours. It’s enchanted so only you and I can open it, you’ll see what it is later, now go.”

He turned away, as if he honestly expected Draco to listen. “Incendio,” he whispered, pointing his wand at Voldemort. Flames erupted, greedily streaking along the gasoline, until they’d consumed Voldemort and were dancing along the floor, up the walls.

Draco was still standing there looking defiant when Harry turned. “You honestly think,” he said in a furious hiss, “that I’d leave you in here to die?”

Harry sighed. “I’m going to die whether you’re here or not, Draco.”

“Don’t you remember?” Draco whispered painfully, setting the small chest aside. “In the great hall, that last night. You said you wouldn’t be scared to die if I was there to hold your hand.”

Harry flinched, his eyes going wide. “I didn’t mean like this.”

The flames were spreading, swirling all around, singeing Harry’s clothes, reflecting in his glasses. Draco took his hand. “Doesn’t matter. It’s always been us against the world, all or nothing, remember?” He smiled gently, rubbing some of the soot off Harry’s lower lip with his finger. “If you stay, so do I.”

The fire was so hot now that Harry could feel it burning his skin, flickering on his clothes. “No,” he whispered, grabbing up the chest of letters and taking Draco roughly by the hand, tugging him towards the front door. The roof over the front room had collapsed now, the dry wood inside the house lighting up like paper. Ashes, sparks, and soot were falling from the ceiling, the rain outside useless to slow the flames.

“Get out!” Harry shouted, shoving Draco towards the back door. The foundations of the house had weakened from the heat, he could hear them groaning, shifting, and knew it was all about to come crashing down. “You don’t have to do this!”

Draco shook his head very slowly, strangely untouched, unmarred by the ashes, and cinders, his face still smooth, perfect. Carved from marble, Pansy would have said.

“I won’t,” he said calmly. “You brought this on us both, you think I’d let you go without me?”

Harry’s shoulders slumped and he glanced from Draco to the calm, cooling rain on the other side of the glass door. “Please,” he whispered.

“Come with me,” Draco replied, taking his hand. “Walk away with me.”

“I’m bonded to him. I’ll die anyway.”

“We’ll take him. Heal him. He’s not dead yet or you would be too. We could keep him alive and unconscious forever.”

“That’s not possible and you know it.”

“Then I’m staying too.”

“Draco!” Harry screamed, furious. “You’re not, I won’t let you, I won’t!”

His screams were lost in the sudden roar of flame and crashing sounds as the house fell down around them, the roof plunging down. Draco’s eyes widened as he saw it coming and, acting purely on instinct, he shoved Harry with all his strength, straight through the glass door, stumbling onto the slippery grass and falling to his hands and knees. The chest of letters rolled away, landing on its side.

“No,” Harry whispered, scrambling to his feet, spinning around to stare at the ruin before him.

The house was a ball of flame, and he could see Draco, partially buried beneath some of the burning rubble, his perfect face marked now, seared and dirty, bleeding a little, his hair singed.

“No, no, no,” Harry chanted, falling to his hands and knees and pulling the burning chunks of wood off of Draco, struggling to pull the other boy away from the fire. He was sobbing dryly and, as if to make up for his inability to cry, the sky suddenly opened further and rain that punished and stung pounded down on him, trampling out the remaining flames that hadn’t been smothered when the house collapsed.

A heavy haze of smoke covered the area now, suffocating him, and Harry coughed weakly, shaking Draco, who was limp in his arms. His eyes didn’t open, and Harry couldn’t tell if he was breathing.

“Please, please,” Harry cried, clutching Draco’s shoulders. “Please…”

And then, his body aching from the flames and all the wounds he had sustained, Harry finally gave into the blackness that had been calling him, and, whether it be to follow Voldemort into death or just because he had nothing to stay alive for any longer, he gave himself up to it, exhaling gently as he let his eyes slowly shut, his arms still wrapped around Draco, his head resting on the other boy’s chest.

15 

Like morning will keep us
locked in our arms
roses for weepers
not easy to charm
and I am not a fool.
***

They smelled the smoke long before they saw it, and when they did, Pansy, Ron, and Hermione fought the urge to panic.

“We’re not too late,” Hermione started to chant under her breath, and no one had the nerve to reply.

The black smudge was a haze over the horizon and they flew as quickly as they could, until Hermione swore savagely under her breath. “Muggles,” she hissed. “The whole place is surrounded by Muggles.” She cast a quick spell to make them invisible as they flew lower, ditching their brooms behind a tree and hurrying towards the cluster of Muggles, staring at the burnt ruins.

“We’re not too late,” Ron said quietly as they ran, unconsciously picking up Hermione’s earlier chant.

“Of course not,” Hermione snapped.

Pansy was silent, pale, her eyes fixed on the smoking ruins.

The Muggles were whispering quietly, and Hermione reached them first. “What happened?” she asked. “Has anyone called the fire department?”

Uncertain around Muggles, Ron and Pansy held back, watching nervously. The man Hermione spoke to said in a monotone, “Fire, happened so fast, we didn’t have time to help… We don’t have a fire department, we called over in the next town, they’re coming, but it’s already too late. The fire’s mostly out.”

“Was there… was there anyone inside?” she whispered.

He looked at her sharply. “We didn’t see anyone. Why? Do you know if anyone was in there?”

She shook her head slowly and backed away. “I don’t,” she said, feeling like she was going to faint. Hurrying back to Pansy and Ron, she said shakily, “They didn’t find anyone, they don’t know if… if there was anyone inside, the rubble’s too hot to search.” She swallowed heavily.

“Maybe… maybe they aren’t here. It could have just been a fire. Let me do the spell again,” Pansy whispered.

Ron glanced at her and nodded solemnly. “Alright. Behind the tree, where the Muggles won’t see.”

This time, the grass and sticks littering the ground rearranged themselves into a small map, more specific now that they were this close. It showed the house, and the shed, and a softly glowing star between them. “They’re in the back,” Pansy whispered.

“Oh fuck,” Ron moaned. If they were back there, wouldn’t they have been found by now? If they were… alright, anyway. It had been too hot to go that near to search there so far, but surely if they were alive, they would have walked away. They wouldn’t still be there.

“Does… does the spell track people who aren’t… aren’t alive?” Hermione asked shakily.

Pansy was very, very pale. “I don’t know.”

“We’ve got to get back there,” Ron hissed.

“But what about the Muggles?” Pansy asked.

“I’ll take care of them,” Hermione growled, stalking towards them with a determined look on her face. Her wand was out of her pocket now and in her hand, and with a few well-aimed Confundus charms and a couple Obliviate spells, the Muggles began wandering back to their homes, a vaguely pleased look on their faces. “C’mon,” she called to Pansy and Ron, running around the smoking pile of rubble.

She saw Harry and Draco almost instantly, curled up together in the grass, though they were so covered in soot and ash that it was nearly impossible to tell them apart. She stumbled to a stop, her hand flying up to her mouth as she stifled a low cry. They were dead, both of them, they wouldn’t be that still if they weren’t. She sunk weakly to her knees, both hands covering her face.

“Oh shit,” Ron whispered weakly, stopping beside her. It was Pansy who, with an irritated glare, hurried past them and knelt beside the two boys, her narrowed eyes running over them critically.

“Help me,” she snapped. “Stop panicking. It might not be too late for Draco at least. I bet Voldemort was inside, he’s probably… probably dead.” She glanced up at Ron. “I’m sorry. Harry’s probably…”

“You stupid boy,” Hermione hissed, crawling the short distance that separated her from the two boys. “When are you going to learn not to go off on things like this without talking to me first? It would have been so much easier on you both…”

Pansy glanced at her sharply. “What are you going on about, Hermione?”

Hermione ignored her. She’d pulled the boys gently apart, using her sleeve to tenderly wipe the blood and soot off Harry’s face. “He’s breathing, only just,” she announced, leaning her head down to Harry’s lips. “Check Draco.”

“Hermione,” Ron said gently, taking her hand. “He can’t be breathing. You-Know-Who was in the fire, he’s dead.”

“You don’t know that! He’s Voldemort, for god’s sake! What if the fire didn’t kill him? And don’t tell me you’re just as thick as Harry is! It’s so fucking obvious, why don’t any of you see it?” she snarled, her eyes blazing.

“See what?” Ron asked, kneeling between the two of them and helping Pansy clear some of the mess of Draco.

“How could Voldemort bind Harry to him if Harry was already bound to someone else?”

Ron’s eyes widened. Before he could ask the thousand questions burning in his eyes, she said quietly, not looking up from Harry, “Blood-bindings can never be broken. The Gobbler’s ink wasn’t a blood-binding but it needed one to activate the second property. Harry wrote that his blood mixed with the ink the first night, when he cut his finger. The blood-bond was intensified even more when they used both of their blood to break the bond formed through the ink. Even that bond-breaking couldn’t touch the blood-bind, however. Nothing can. They can never be broken. Or replaced. Harry hadn’t followed his bond to Voldemort to find them tonight… he followed his bond to Draco.”

“He’s alright?” Ron asked eagerly, bending over Harry.

“He’s not. He’s slashed up and broken,” she whispered. “I’ve done all I can, we’ve got to get him to Hogwarts and Dumbledore.”

She glanced over at Pansy, who had remained unnaturally silent throughout her whole explanation. “Is Malfoy okay?” she asked after a pause, her eyes trained on Pansy’s pale face.

Pansy lifted her dark eyes to Hermione and stammered, “I…I don’t know, I can’t get him to… to breathe.”

Hermione swore and crawled over to him, gently stroking his face in the rain. There were still streaks of black, wet soot there, the rain hadn’t washed it away, had only made it sticky and thick, like a sort of paste. “Draco,” she called softly, as if talking to him would really help. “C’mon, don’t do this.”

She searched for a pulse, bending close to his lips to feel for breath. “He’s cold,” she whispered.

“He’s always cold,” Pansy replied stubbornly. “It doesn’t mean a thing.” She stroked his face a little. “He’s my best friend,” she said in a choked tone. “He’ll be fine.”

Ron wrapped an arm around her and she buried her face in his shoulder.

“Flag down the Knight Bus,” Hermione said briskly, still bent over Draco. “We’ve got to get them to Dumbledore. I don’t know… Draco is… Pansy, he could be alright. I don’t know.”

Ron flagged down the Knight Bus and it arrived in seconds. He carried Harry inside, ignoring the driver’s questions, and Hermione pointed to something a short distance away. “That,” she said to Pansy. “Bring that too. And the brooms.”

She lifted Draco’s heavy body with the aid of a lightening spell while Pansy went to fetch the small chest that was lying in the grass a short distance away and then she went and found the brooms.

Hermione lay Draco on the same bed as Harry, close enough to touch, and then went to explain a bit better to the driver. She didn’t notice Draco’s chest slowly rise in a gentle breath that whispered out between his lips and ruffled Harry’s hair.

***

“…I don’t understand, I don’t understand, how can you be gone? After all we promised each other and all you said to me, how could you let me go? You told me that everything we had was real, but now it’s gone, and all I’m left with is this. It’s so empty, I never noticed how much I relied on you, even before I loved you, you were everything I measured myself by…It’s a nightmare, Draco, and I’m just waiting to wake up.”

The parchment slipped from shaking fingers, falling to the bed and lying on a pile of others, all similar, their tones ranging from hysterical denial to fury, and sometimes the odd tender letter. He picked up another.

“Potions today, just got out. We were reviewing for exams, it was lovely, Draco. Do you sense my sarcasm? I chopped the roots too coarsely and added them before the wormwood, which for some reason created a weak version of something Snape called ‘Swill’. I tried not to be offended, really. It was even a little funny when the potion splashed a little and splattered on Neville. He instantly started growing rather hairy warts. Amusing, yes, but I fear I’ll fail Potions without you here to make it make sense to me…

And still, another letter. “The sun’s gone down now, night’s always the hardest. That leaf you gave me (you did give it to me, didn’t you? That red one from the hollow?), it’s not red anymore. I didn’t even notice it start to die, and the other day I looked at it and it wasn’t crimson anymore, it was brown. I touched it and it crumbled to dust. I really shouldn’t have been surprised, everything turns to dust. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, that’s what Muggle priests say at funerals. What do wizards say? There is only power, and those too weak to seek it? I suspect it’s something like that, or at least something equally ironic.”

Draco let that one slip away as well, unable to read further. He took a deep, steadying breath, and glanced longingly at Harry, who was lying asleep on the bed that Draco had curled up on.

He hadn’t been awake very long and still wasn’t quite sure what had happened, how they had come to be in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. All Draco knew was that he had woken up on the bed beside Harry’s, aching, disoriented, and panicking, because he hadn’t wanted to wake up at all if Harry wasn’t there to wake up with.

But Harry had been there. Nearby at least. Not near enough to touch, but that was easy enough to counter. Draco had slipped shakily from his bed and climbed into Harry’s, at first not daring to believe it was possible, that Harry was there, and that he was alive, still breathing. He’d traced Harry’s features, his entire body trembling with something too profound even to be called relief. He hadn’t wanted to wake him, however, because Harry’s face still bore healing wounds from Voldemort’s attack on him. He was still pale with exhaustion, dark circles under his eyes, three freshly healed slashes on his cheeks that might leave faint scars. So Draco had let him sleep, resolving to watch over him while he did.

No one had come to check on them, they obviously hadn’t expected him to wake up so soon, but Draco didn’t mind. He was curled up beside Harry, could reach over and touch him whenever he liked, and somehow, they were both still alive.

He had noticed the small chest Harry had given to him on a table nearby and had leaned over Harry to reach it. As Harry had said before, it only opened for the two of them and it opened easily in Draco’s hands.

It was filled with letters, and for the last twenty minutes, Draco had been going through them, reading over them. He understood, of course. Harry wrote to him because he couldn’t stand to let him go, the same way Draco would go on and on for hours about Harry to those sodding stray dogs he had befriended.

There was one letter he hadn’t read, besides skimming the date on it. He’d dropped it as though it had scalded him and avoided it since, and now, hands trembling, he picked it up again.

It was dated the night that Harry had left Hogwarts, determined never to return. It was his good-bye letter, and Draco wasn’t sure he had the strength to read it.