Draco Veritas Alternate Scene  

"I look fantastic!” Draco'svoice rang out from inside the small dressing room. All Hermione could see was the velvet curtain hanging over the door that blocked the room off, and Draco's booted feet just underneath the door. She raised an eyebrow.  

"Well, come out and show us, then," she said 

"But then I would have to stop looking at myself," Draco pointed out. 

"Well, I can't help you pick an outfit if you won't let me see it," Hermione said reasonably.  

"Oh, I don't know," said Draco. "I'm not sure you're ready for this much fantastic!" 

"Trust me, Malfoy," said Harry drily. "We are both prepared to handle the fantastic." 

Hermione shot him an amused look. They had been shopping in the clothing section of Diagon Alley for almost six hours now, and Harry was beginning to wilt like an unwatered buttercup. At the moment, he was standing in a corner of the Kenneth Troll shop, trying to avoid getting poked by Christmas decorations and gloomily perusing a battered copy of Quidditch News Weekly, March 1973, which he had picked up along the way and had already read seven times. Hermione and Harry had both purchased their clothes for the Yule Ball hours before. Only Draco was left, and despite having tried on at least sixty pairs of trousers already, he had yet to find one that didn't make him look Fat, Poor, Lumpy, Pear-Shaped, Trashy, Slightly Bulgarian, Too Girly, or Too Butch. Hermione was confused as to why the last was an issue but apparently he was set in his opinion.  

"Please come out of the dressing room, Malfoy," Harry said plaintively. "Even the photos in this magazine are starting to look bored.” 

Sure enough, Igor Trebiansky, the 1973 Russian Seeker, was yawning as he sped across the pitch for the fiftieth time.  

"If you don't come out, we are going to come in!" Hermione threatened.  

"All right, all right," said Draco, and with a flourish, threw open the door. 

Harry dropped his magazine. 

Hermione choked on a giggle. "You look..." 

"Say it!" Draco demanded, preening gracefully in front of the three-way mirror outside the dressing room door. "You've never seen anything like me before. Am I right?" 

"Right you are," said Harry, weakly. 

Hermione had to agree. She had never seen anything quite like Draco's outfit before. It began with the boots. The boots that had seemed a tasteful black peeking out beneath the door turned out to have giant pink turnovers on the top. Then there were the trousers. They were silver, and skintight. They laced up the front, the lacings loose enough to reveal the fact that Draco was wearing midnight blue underwear. A kinder narrator might well gloss over the shirt -- it came only halfway down his torso, was white, and had puffy, ruffled sleeves. There was a vest that went with it. The vest was green. It had silver dragons on it. There was also a dragon pendant of some sort. Hermione averted her eyes. 

"So what do you think? You're stunned, right? You have no words. You want to pounce me and ravish my fabulous, sinewy body!" He examined his flat tummy appreciatively in the mirror. "I can hardly blame you. I can't wait to hear what people say when I walk into the Great Hall in this..." 

"You can't walk into the Great Hall in that!" Harry burst out, having turned a faint shade of green that matched Draco's vest, which was fortunate because nothing else did. 

Draco paused and blinked at him. "Why not?" 

"Because," Hermione said, steeling herself. "You look gay." 

"Really gay," said Harry. 

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Hermione added quickly. 

"Of course not!" Harry added, bending to pick up his Quidditch magazine. Hermione could not see his face but she could see that the back of his neck was bright red. He straightened up. "Just, I don't know if you...well...who are you going to the Yule Ball with, anyway? Is there something you want to tell us?" 

Draco looked highly affronted. "Look, just because I have a Quidditch-honed body and some fashion sense, doesn't make me gay." 

"No, but that outfit might," said Hermione, looking at it askance. "You don't just look gay, you look like an escapee from the Gay Men's Madrigal Choir." 

Draco crossed his arms over his chest which had the unfortunate effect of pulling the ruffled sleeves tight across his arms and making him look flouncy. "These clothes are classics! They recall a bygone age." 

"I for one am happy it's gone," said Harry, returning to his magazine after shooting Hermione a you-deal-with-it look. "I think if I had to wear trousers that tight all the time children would eventually be out of the question." 

Draco turned back and looked at himself in the mirror. His lip wobbled. "But I look pretty!" 

"You do look pretty, honey," Hermione agreed kindly. "It's just that...well. You're not actually gay, and ..." 

"Well, I might be," said Draco. 

Hermione paused and blinked. She glanced behind her at Harry but he seemed absorbed in an article on lost colonies of Southeast Asia and did not look up. "You...what? You are?" 

"I'm not saying I am," Draco said. "I'm just saying I could be. I am a Malfoy! I can do anything I want! I defy your paltry labels!" 

"How much butterbeerdid you have at lunch?" Hermione wondered aloud.  

"I refuse to be categorized! I am Draco Malfoy! I am a unique and beautiful snowflake!" 

"In pink boots," said Harry, without looking up. 

"They're FUSCHIA!" Draco yelled. "They complement my waistcoat!" 

"But you like girls, Draco," Hermione said, as kindly as she could. 

"Maybe I just haven't met the right guy!" Draco said, waving his ruffles petulantly. "My man of destiny could come along any day now. Someone who would appreciate me. Someone who would take care of me. Someone who would follow me to the Gates of Hell --" 

"I never thought Hell had gates," Harry mused. "I always thought there was, like, this tunnel thing..." 

"THAT IS NOT THE POINT!" Draco yelled. "The point is that I could be gay, if I liked! Nobody could stop me! I would be the gayest gay student Hogwarts has ever seen! I would out-gay Justin Finch Fletchley 

"Justin is straight!" Hermione protested. 

"Really? But he's always playing 'Moon River' on his harmonica," said Draco, with interest. 

"So what!" Hermione snapped. "You don’t know anything about being gay, Draco. You're just defending your outfit, and being really lame about it." 

"I am not being lame," Draco snapped. His grey eyes flashed. "I am just saying. I am mysterious. I have many depths. I could be gay. I could be madly in love with Harry and concealing it for the sake of my profound friendship with you both." 

Hermione looked at him, exasperated. "That's ridiculous." 

"Oh? Is it?" Draco demanded, sensing a challenge. He tossed his hair back. "Potter! Come here!" 

Harry, who had unfortunately not been paying attention, looked up and blinked. "What?" 

"I said get over here!" Draco bellowed, pointing at a spot on the floor right in front of him. 

Harry put his magazine down and trotted over obligingly, rather, Hermione thought, like a lamb to the slaughter. "Okay. Do you need help with your cufflinks or ---mffffff!" he finished, the end of the sentence swallowed up by the fact that Draco had just grabbed him by the shoulders and planted his lips on Harry's. 

Long endless seconds seemed to go by. Hermione remembered Draco having once told her that there was no point doing anything if you weren't going to do it well, and he seemed to be applying that philosophy to this particular exercise. Hermione felt briefly sorry for Harry, who had about as much chance in this situation as a dust mote in a typhoon. She also found that she was enjoying this far more than was possibly healthy. After all, these were two very pretty boys, sharing what Ginny would have called A Moment. Actually, it was rather more than A Moment. By the time they separated Hermione found herself feeling the need for a fan. 

“Glerk," said Harry, looking dazed. 

Draco looked inordinately pleased with himself. "Don't fall in love with me, Potter," he said. "I'll break your heart. I can never be tied down." He licked his bottom lip and squinted at Harry, suddenly suspicious. "Are you wearing lip gloss?" 

Harry looked shifty. "No." 

"Yes, you are, you taste of kiwi-strawberry lip gloss. Blaise wears it." 

Harry's chin trembled. "I got bored in the makeup store!" he wailed. "And my lips were chapped!" He glared at Draco. His hair was standing up all over his head where Draco had run his fingers through it. "What was the point of that, anyway, Malfoy?" 

"The point was that these trousers are fantastic and I am going to buy them," Draco said. 

"Do you always kiss people when you make purchases?" Harry muttered. 

"You know," Hermione said helpfully, "I really think actually those trousers are very flattering." 

Draco looked gratified. "Thank you, Hermione. The voice of reason at last." 

"And you can probably get a tailor to fix how they bunch up in the back," she added. 

Draco blanched. "They what? They bunch up?" 

"Just a little," Hermione said. "Right over your bum. I mean, I know those lumps aren't you, but..." 

"Lumps!?" Draco looked stricken. "Despair! Ruin! Shoddy tailoring! I am DEFILED!" 

And with that, he raced back into the dressing room, and yanked the door shut behind him. The sound of hasty undressing was audible. 

Hermione looked at Harry, who glared at her as if it was her fault, which, she thought, was really rather unfair. "I am never going shopping with either of you again," he said. 

"Kiwi-strawberry lip gloss?" said Hermione. 

Harry blushed furiously, but before he could respond, the dressing room door flew open again, and Draco emerged, beaming radiantly. "How about this one?" he demanded cheerily. "I'd almost forgotten that body stockings were back in style this season. Fortunately, I have the figure to wear them!" 

Harry looked as if he might cry. "Is that a matador jacket?" 

Leaning back against the wall, Hermione sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon. 

Draco VeritasAlternate Scene ~ Disobediance  

Beauty is not only a terrible thing, it is also a mysterious thing. There God and the Devil strive for mastery, and the battleground is the heart of men.– Doestoyevsky 

I 

Draco is a year old. 

Luciusis quite fond of him, more than he had expected he would be. Vainly, he still thinks of himself as too young to have children. But he finds his son unexpectedly interesting. The boy giggles when held upside down. Lucius takes himself to holding Draco upside down in the gallery, because it charms the portraits. 

II 

Draco is two years old.  

Lucius has ordered the house-elves to begin construction on a play set in back of the Manor, complete with fleets of walking toy soldiers, a chess set whose pieces are taller than Draco himself, Slither Dust, ExplodingPodblossoms, starter broomsticks, and all the other expensive delights he himself had enjoyed as a child. 

One nightDraco's motherwakes him in the middle of the night and tells him they have company. She dresses him in black velvet robes that itch his skin. He chews the white lace around his sleeve as she carries him downstairs, where there is a man waiting for him. A man with dead white skin, and narrow eyes like slits of blood. "So this is the boy," he says. 

The next dayLuciusorders the play set dismantled. The ExplodingPodblossomsarescatteredto the wind. For months after, they blow in through the windows of the house and startle the inhabitants by exploding unexpectedly underfoot. 

III 

Draco is three years old. 

Lucius spends long hours away from the Manor, seeing to his business interests, overseeing the running of the Daily Prophet, the smooth operation of the Midnight Club. When he comes home, the boy looks at him as though he were a stranger. 

IV 

Draco is four years old. 

Narcissademands ofLuciusan accounting of his whereabouts: she thinks he is being unfaithful. She is right, he is. In the heat of the argument that follows, her pearl necklace is torn from her throat, the pearls scattered. One of them rolls to the boy’s feet; he slips it into his pocket. Years later he finds it in a box next to his bed and can’t remember how it got there. 

 V 

Draco is five years old. 

An exceptionally beautiful child, he looks as if he has been cast out of milk crystal. All pallor and such fine, fair hair, and grey eyes like translucent windowpanes. Luciuscan see where his own stern features have blended themselves withNarcissa's softness, where his own salt-white blondness has mixed with her gilt so that the boy's hair is silver from some angles, gold from others. He is a doll made out of porcelain and rose petals and gold paint. Luciusfinds all this extravagant beauty completely wasteful. He can see no point in it. 

VI 

Draco is six years old. 

He has learned how to operate a broomstick, finally, and triumphantly sails from the top of the staircase down to the floor of the Hall, knocking over and smashing one of Lucius’ precious Ming Dynasty statuettes in the process. Luciusgoes to shake the boy and thinks better of it: better not to damage him. The Dark Lord may yet return, and he had better be ready to render untoCeasar - what is Caesar’s when he does - and to render it undamaged. 

As he walks away, he senses the boy looking after him in astonishment and some hurt. Clearly, he had hoped in some way to be punished. How puzzling, Lucius thinks, the logic of children. 

VII 

Draco is seven years old. 

Luciustakes him hunting. Luciususes arrows, flung from his wand. Knives, sometimes. Killing Curses only when necessary. Draco rides behind him, small hands careful on the reins of his horse. His wide eyes watch everything his father does. His eyes narrow, watching the hounds, bred to rend and tear. Luciusdraws him down off the horse. He hardly ever touches his son and the light feel of the child is strange to him. He sets him down on a snowbank. The boy sinks in, snow up to his knees. He looks wonderingly at his father asLuciusdips his hands into the blood. He straightens and touched his gloves hands to the boy's face. Draco is small for his age and Lucius' long hands cover his face almost entirely, a mask of blood and leather. When he takes his hands away there is blood all over the boy's face, blood in his fine, fair hair, blood on his mouth. Draco winces as if the taste of it is bitter. 

"What do you say to me now, Draco?" Luciusasks him. 

"Thank you, Father."  

VIII 

Draco is eight years old. 

Luciusgets him a bird, a falcon with sickle wings, entirely untamed. For weeks the boy walks around in an exhausted half-daze, his wristsbraceletedby bloody lacerations where the bird's claws have scored him. But he is determined.  Luciusthinks he has never seen a child so determined. WhenLucius breaks the bird’s neck, the boy dissolves into tears, crouched over the dead bird’s body as if it were the only thing he had ever loved. Lucius is disgusted. The boy is weak and childish. Lessoning him is impossible; it is like trying to mould silt to a cohesive shape. He is only half of what Voldemort had promised: more gold than iron, more water than steel.  

It is, however, the last time the boy ever cries. As the years stretch on, later, Lucius wonders why, why that small injury, that minor cruelty, was the end of it; he wonders how that lesson might have been different than the others. And he wonders if he is cruel to the boy for he himself to test the limits of what Voldemort has taken from him. If, perhaps, there might be some extremity of anguish in which he might find that he does indeed care. Love, blood and magic: if they are at war within him, it is a silent war, and no sign of the conflict mars his outward façade.  

IX 

Draco is nine years old. 

It is an exceptionally cold winter. Lucius discovers that the house-elves have been sneaking extra blankets to the child. Lucius orders all his blankets taken away. When Luciuscomes to check on him he discovers that Draco has dragged all his clothes, cloaks and shirts and trousers, onto the bed and is huddled under them. Luciusorders the clothes packed away, and ties his son to the bed by his wrists.  

The next morning the boy runs away. Luciusreleases his pack of hellhounds, with orders to retrieve and not to kill. They drag the boy back, and the lead hound deposits him on the floor of the Great Hall at his father's feet. Malfoy ancestors look down from the walls as Luciuskneels down and lifts his son from the floor. He touches the child's hair and face gently, his cheeks where the brambles have scratched him. His clothes are torn and he stinks of sweat and fear and hellhounds.  

"You cannot run from me," Luciustells him softly. "You belong to me. You are mine, like this house, like these dogs, like the portraits on the walls. No less and no more than any of my other possessions, you belong to me. You are subject to my laws and to the Manor's laws. Fight me and I will break you. Run from me and I will bring you back. There is no part of this earth you can run to that I cannot find you, no place so distant that, finding yourself there, you will no longer be my son."  

The boy hunches himself up, turns away from his father. Luciustakes him upstairs and locks him in his room. The boy does not pound on the door or ask to be let out or beg for forgiveness. Luciusis obscurely pleased. Perhaps in this delicate child there is some will after all.  

X  

Draco is ten years old. 

He is disobedient often, in willful small ways. He torments the house-elves into going against Lucius' wishes. He breaks the lock on the drawing-room trap door and explores the dungeons. He skips fencing practice. He takes his broomstick and flies too high with it, almost causing a Muggle helicopter to crash onto the grounds of the Manor. Lucius takes the broom -- new and expensive, a gift from an uncle -- and burns it in the library fireplace. Draco whitens, watching it burn, but says nothing. Lucius takes the rest of his brooms, even the tinyCleanSweep100 he learned to fly on, and burns those too. "And so it will go for you," Luciussays, turning to the boy, "as long as you are disobedient."  

The boy raises his eyes to his father. "I don't see why you didn't just let me go when I ran away," he says. There is a bitter emptiness in his tone that belies his few years. "You don't want me here. Nobody wants me here." 

Lucius then does something he has never done before. He reaches out and touches the boy, gently, on the cheek. "I want you here," he says. "You are my son." 

Draco has not yet learned to hide his emotions. His face betrays his shock.Lucius drops his hand, calculating. It is a test of the boy's susceptibility. He looks sternly at the child, "You look for kindness from me," he says. "It is to be had, if only you would not go so far to avoid those words you hate so much: Father, I regret my disobedience."   

Draco says nothing. Luciusdismisses the boy and waits to see what he will do. Hours go by and Draco does not come to him, but later, whenLuciusgoes into the fencing room, he finds his son already there. He has been practicing alone or with one of the ghost teachers, for he looks tired and dishevelled, the sword drooping in his hand. When he sees his father he freezes for a moment. Then he crosses the room to him. He gets down on his knees in front ofLucius. He holds his hands out, the naked blade of the sword flat against his palms. "Father," he says. "I regret my disobedience." 

Luciustakes the sword and looks at it. Another blade, this one of disappointment, has gone through him, keen as a wound. The boy has learned nothing about resistance. He is still as weak as before. Luciuslowers the sword until the sharp tip rests against the boy's bare collarbone. "Get up," he says. "We still have much to do."  

XI 

Draco is eleven years old. 

He is never disobedient, althoughLuciusremains unsatisfied with him. He is too small, for one thing. If he had been one ofLucius' carefully bred hounds,  Luciuswould have remarked upon his failure to thrive. The fair childish good looks are fading, refined down into thinness. The boy is angular, all angles and joints. Lucius looks for the beauty Voldemort promised him and finds it lacking. Perhaps there was something he himself should have done, but did not do? There is now no way to know. The other qualities are there. Draco can be charming when he wishes. He is carelessly cruel. He lights butterflies on fire to watch their wings burn. He knows where to pinch another child so that the bruises do not show. His words can draw blood. He has faith in his own blood, its purity and blueness. On his first day at school, standing at King's Cross station, he looks up and down the platform, his eyes narrow, calculating, taking the measure of the other children there, assuring himself of his own superiority. He does not notice the boy who walks past him, black-haired and untidy, hauling a trunk behind him. ButLuciusnotices him, and the name on his trunk, scrawled there in ink: Harry Potter.  

XII  

Draco is twelve years old. 

At King’s Cross station this year, he glances up and down the platform, eyes narrowed, a high bright colour in his pale cheeks. WhenLuciusasks him what he is looking for, the boy snaps his reply back so fast that it is almost incomprehensible. Only whenLuciusasks him again does he realize what Draco is so urgently searching for: Potter.  

XIII  

Draco is thirteen years old 

Luciusfinds him increasingly tiresome. He is cruel, still, but in petty small ways: he is no artist of malice, nothing like Tom once was. He is a brat only, a whiny complainer, burner of butterflies, torturer of small and helpless things.  

XIV  

Draco is fourteen. 

He is tall now, he has grown into himself, and although he is nowhere near done growing one can see the shape of what he will be through him, and it is what Voldemort had promised, after all. His attitude towardsLuciusis as mutable as ever: a wary camaraderie is emerging from the thickets of childhood worship and fear, and sometimes there is even a wry amusement to him. In Draco’s eyesLuciussees sometimes an emotion he cannot define - he feels he should know it, but that knowledge is locked away from him, lost in the inaccessible past.  

XV  

Draco is fifteen.  

Luciusholds a New Year’s party at the Manor. It is a small but elegant affair. Draco is required to attend. He arrives late, striding arrogantly through the double doors, pulling on a glove, a slinking house-elf behind him holding the other glove in one abject fist. He stands looking the room up and down andLucius can see how all eyes turn to him, surprised, delighted, a little wondering, for everyone loves beautiful things. He crosses the room to his son, who is standing beside the champagne fountain: an enormous silver dish, its centerpiece a mermaid pouring wine from a jar down her bare back. Draco looks at him over a half-filled champagne flute. The champagne is a shade tawnier than his eyes, and just as clear. "Happy New Year, Father," he says. 

“Keep your marks up, Draco, and it will be," says Lucius, slightly irritated by his son’s showy good mood.  

"I should be top of my class this year," says Draco, "what withUmbridge keeping the undesirable element in their place." He chuckles, refilling his glass at the fountain. Somewhere, he has acquired a tolerance for liquor. "Have I told you what she did to Potter? She got him in her office and she made him write -" 

"Yes," Lucius says, losing interest -- he has seen Eleftheriaacross the room, looking magnificent in a glimmering purple gown. "Of course you have -- if I were you, Draco, I’d be a bit more subtle about the Potter obsession of yours. It’s becoming a bit embarrassing." 

He walks away, without looking back. He does not see Draco watching him, over the rim of his glass, does not hear the sharp intake of breath or see the forced and practiced smile that curls his son’s mouth. "I will not tell lies," Draco says, so softly that not even the mermaid can hear him.  

XVI  

Draco is sixteen years old. 

He no longer belongs to his father. Luciusrealizes this on a cold afternoon in St. Mungo’s, staring down at an Epicyclical Charm in his hand, a charm his son has just flung at his head. I’ve lost him, Lucius thinks. I’ve truly lost him, and he feels, for an instant, the staggering implications, the enormity, of that. Kill me, then, Draco had said, and Luciustastes bitter rage in the back of his throat. He has not raised his son to be selfless: he has raised his son to understand that, being blood and bone of the Malfoys and property of the Manor, he has no self to give. He thinks of the boy he just saw and spoke with - a boy he did not know. A boywith a scarred hand, a sharp voice, and angrily burning eyes. When did Draco become so strong? Luciusfeels, for the first time and for a fleeting moment only, proud of his son. Love, it seems, has triumphed over blood and magic, if only for an instant.

This is a bit of fluff that takes off from the "Is there somebody else?" scene in DV1 at the Sleazy Weasel. Enjoy.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Draco Veritas Alternate Scene: In Which Draco Realizes Why He Is So Fond of Green Umbrellas 

Cassandra Claire and Rhysenn 

Draco idly ran a finger around the cold rim of his glass. "What did you and Hermione fight about?" he asked, making his voice neutral.  

"Why don't you tell me?" said Harry.  

Draco blinked. "Eh?"  

"She talks to you," said Harry, in a cool voice. "I know she does."  

Draco met Harry's gaze with his own. "Do you care?"  

"If it helps her, I guess I don't."  

Draco abandoned the cagey approach. "She says you've been ignoring her," he said. "She says you barely speak to her any more."  

A slow flush spread upward from Harry's collarbone, across his face.  

"That's not true," he said.  

Draco didn't say anything.  

"It's not bloody true," Harry said again, the tops of his cheekbones dark red with rage.  

"Right," said Draco. "Tell me, what classes is she taking?"  

Harry blinked and opened his mouth. `What?"  

"What classes is Hermione taking this year?"  

Harry's mouth remained open. "Potions," he said slowly. "Advanced DaDA with Lupin...."  

"And the classes she doesn't have with you?"  

Harry looked down at the bartop. "Arithmancy," he said. His voice was unsure. "Medical Magic. Wards and Protection..."  

"She dropped that," said Draco. His voice was hard. "In October. She's taking Runic Studies instead."  

Harry looked away from him. His jaw muscles were set. "What's your point?"  

"You have been ignoring her. Why?"  

"I have not—"  

"Oh, give it up, Harry," yelled Draco in exasperation. "Is there somebody else?"  

Harry spun around on his bar stool and glared at Draco fiercely. "I don't think that's your business," he said, his voice low and even.  

"It bloody well is my business," said Draco sharply, feeling a sharp tension rise and crest inside his chest – what was Harry hiding? "You're both my friends, and –"  

"Let it alone, Malfoy. I'm warning you." Harry's voice was thick with repressed fury. As always Draco was conscious of the electric crackle of excitement he felt whenever Harry was angry. He told himself that it was because of their strong mental connection, that he couldn't help but feel a little of what Harry was feeling, if he was feeling it that strongly. That it had nothing to do with the way Harry's fair skin flushed just along the tops of his cheekbones when he was angry, the way his black hair danced and his green eyes shot sparks and his slender, muscled chest rose and fell against the thin material of his T-shirt in rapid, staccato bursts. Or the way that, seeing him locked in the passion of his anger, Draco couldn't help but wonder what he might be like locked into some other kind of passion.  

Draco's hand tightened on his glass. "I will not," he said evenly, "let it alone. Is there somebody else, or not?"  

For a moment he was certain Harry was going to jump off his bar stool and hit him, and his blood sang with adrenaline and excitement. But the fury in Harry's eyes suddenly vanished, replaced by something else – a sadness, a terrible confusion, a sort of fear.  

"There is," said Harry, "somebody else."  

A wave of shock rolled over Draco. He raised his eyes, searching Harry's expression for some hint, some clue. All he saw was the intensity in Harry's gaze, and he thought with a sick sort of shock. Whoever this other person is, it isn't just some fling. And in another part of his brain, a still, small voice spoke, How could Harry possibly have fallen in love with someone and I don't know about it?  

He heard his own voice as if it came from a long way away, steady and even, some calm stranger's voice. "Who is it?"  

Harry spun around so quickly that Draco feared he would give himself whiplash. His face half-hidden by dark hair, he stared down at the polished bar, his hands resting there in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was muffled, but even. "I should think you would have been able to guess that, Malfoy," he said. "It's you."  

There was a long moment of silence. It seemed to Draco to go on and on, stretching into a terrible sort of infinity. Harry sat without moving, still looking down at his hands.  

Finally, Draco spoke. If he'd hoped that whatever came out of his mouth was going to be a trenchant, witty observation, he was disappointed. He heard himself suck in a startled breath, and exhale on an astonished question. "What did you say?"  

"You heard me." Harry straightened his shoulders, although he still didn't turn around.  

"That's not funny," said Draco. His heart was kicking painfully against his ribcage.  

"It's not a joke."  

Draco shook his head. "Uh-uh. You're drunk, Potter."  

Now Harry looked up. His eyes were bright, with leftover anger and something else – a sort of hurt. "Maybe I am," he said, "but that doesn't make it not true. In vino veritas, Malfoy."  

"You're quoting Latin. You're definitely drunk."  

"So what? I'm drunk, not insane. Are you not listening to me at all? Do you not understand what I'm telling you? Do you think it's easy for me?"  

Draco realized he was still holding his drink, and slammed it down on the bar. His chest felt painfully tight. "I think you're going to be sorry tomorrow, that's what I think."  

"I'm already sorry." Harry laughed. It was a short, mirthless laugh. "But I don't care. You needed to know. I needed to tell you. Now I know what your answer is. Fine." Harry shook his head. "But I know how you really feel, even if you're too much a coward to say so."  

"Don't presume to tell me how I feel, Potter."  

"I see how you look at me." Harry's voice was low, intense, as sharp as a knife-edge – Draco had always loved his voice. Bell-clear and shy when he was younger, it had darkened somewhere between fourth and fifth year into a man's voice, awakening in Draco the jealous feelings he was familiar with, along with other, less familiar feelings. "And I can feel the way you react, when I'm around, and it's definitely something more. I don't know what it is, but it's something."  

"You said we should pretend," Draco said, his words treading carefully. He daren't say anything more, for fear of what might spill from his lips, and it took supreme effort to maintain the evenness in his voice.  

"Pretend." Harry echoed, and let out a short bitter laugh. "Sometimes I wish I could pretend that I didn't feel the way I do. But I can't." He paused. "Do you want me to tell you how I feel when I'm around you?"  

"Don't," said Draco, his voice a near-whisper, but Harry went on as if he hadn't spoken at all.  

"I can't think straight, or concentrate on anything," Harry turned back to his drink and stared down at it, his voice soft, raw with emotion. "All I can see is you, and in my mind all I can feel are your thoughts. And…" Harry trailed off, as he slid his hand along the bar so that his fingers just touched Draco's.  

Draco felt even this light touch as if it were a burning brand against his skin. This couldn't be happening. He had envisioned it enough times, dreamed it enough times, wanted it so badly and for so long that it had taught him the harshest lesson of desire – that just wanting something that badly was not enough to make it real.  

Draco didn't move, or even turn his head to look, even as Harry slowly took his hand in his own, gently spreading out his stiff fingers to lay open his palm. Then Harry started to trace the outline of the scar slashed across his palm, and the sheer electric pulse of Harry's touch bolted through him like lightning in his blood.  

It's not possible, a sharp painful voice inside his head spoke through the confused haze of his mind. He can't possibly be in love with you. This is Harry.  

Harry, whom he used to hate, or maybe that was just a disguise for something else he'd felt all along. Harry, who stood by him always, who believed in him even more than he believed in himself. Who awakened in him a certain sense of what was right, of what was worth fighting for.  

Harry, who was now caressing his hand with a delicate, fiery touch, and Draco closed his eyes and forced himself to think, to think of something else other than Harry's fingers stroking over his own palm. Harry's drunk, you're not. Draco reminded himself fiercely. Don't do anything stupid. Don't say what you feel. *Don't.*  

"Draco," Harry said quietly, his voice filled with intense earnest. "I—"  

"You're drunk." Draco said in a leaden voice that surprised even himself. But beneath the dull tone of his voice lurked a veiled pain, an ache born of yearning but daring not believe, of forcing himself not to trust what he instinctively wanted to.  

Harry's head snapped toward Draco, shocked; then his expression hardened, filling with annoyance, frustration and— helplessness, which quickly faded into a reckless, pained defiance. He abruptly let go of Draco's palm and withdrew his own hand.  

"Fine, Malfoy," Harry said, his voice cold enough to cut steel, his eyes glinting with a dark hurt. "You're right. I am drunk. And I'm also leaving."  

Without another word, Harry spun his stool around, got to his feet and walked right out of the Sleazy Weasel, slamming the door loudly as he went. The other customers all paused and stared at the door after Harry, then turned to look at Draco. The topless waitress tutted and remarked, "Passionate and fiery, that lad. I like that in a man."  

Draco stared blankly at the closed door, stunned – then he leapt to his feet and bolted after Harry. A thousand thoughts, all of them irrational, swirled through his mind – and deep inside he had this sinking fear that he'd made the biggest mistake of his life, and that a chance which he had been waiting for, which had held his hand, was gone forever, because he had been stupid enough to let it go.  

He ran through the Three Broomsticks, without even pausing to greet Madam Rosmerta – he was so blindly desperate to find Harry that it didn't even occur to him to ask her which direction he had gone. Draco burst out onto the main thoroughfare of Hogsmeade, his feet plodding through the carpet of snow – and Harry was nowhere to be seen.  

Draco swore. Knowing Harry, he had probably stormed back to Hogwarts, where he would refuse to ever speak to him again – either that, or he would have returned to lying face-down in the snow where Draco had found him earlier, which Draco reckoned was a more remote possibility.  

He decided to get back to Hogwarts as soon as he could, so that he might get a chance to speak to Harry before he entered the castle. He didn't know what he was going to say, but all he knew was that he needed to see Harry again, to feel Harry's hand pressed into his palm, maybe even to touch Harry's lips with his own – Draco rounded the bend, and promptly barrelled a very startled someone over. They collided and fell backwards in a snow-covered heap, and it took several moments for Draco to realize that he was lying on top of a very disgruntled-looking Harry.  

"Harry?" Draco gasped, gazing down at him, irresistibly drawn into those narrowed eyes of pale emerald, framed in glasses flecked with snow.  

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry glared at him, although he made no attempt to crawl out from under Draco. "I really am not in the mood for being made a fool of twice within the span of the same five minutes."  

"I just—I wanted…" Draco bit his lip, feeling dizzy and incoherent, which might have had something to do with the fact that he was now straddling Harry's waist and half-lying on top of him. "I just wanted to ask you something."  

Harry made a derisive noise. "I'm drunk, remember, so don't expect anything sensible from me."  

"Did you mean that?" Draco asked quietly, a genuine emotion shining like a silver light in his eyes, pure and so very fragile. "What you said in the bar, just now. Did you— did you really mean it?"  

The expression in Harry's eyes softened, melted by the truthfulness burning in Draco's voice, shimmering in his eyes, which were so very beautiful at that moment, grey reflecting the white light of the snow all around them.  

/Of course I meant it./ Harry spoke to Draco's mind, his gaze levelling Draco's unflinchingly. He saw Draco blink, surprised for a moment, before an expression of incredible happiness settled over his face. Harry knew Draco was remembering that no lie could be spoken telepathically.  

Harry raised his hand, and let his finger trail down Draco's cheek, as he gazed into Draco's eyes, and then added, /I've meant it for a really long time./  

Draco almost couldn't believe what he was hearing, spoken so intimately inside his mind, Harry's tender words finding their place deep inside his heart. It was the perfect articulation of everything he had ever wanted to hear from Harry, and the unmistakable truth of his unspoken words was all that he needed to know.  

Draco leaned forward and kissed Harry on the lips, his hands moving to hold Harry's face, his body arching over Harry's and pinning him onto the snow-coated ground. He felt Harry's mouth open under his, and within a dizzying instant Harry was kissing him back, running his tongue over Draco's lower lip, as his arms encircled Draco's waist and pulled him closer.  

Harry's lips were soft, and his mouth was warm in such contrast to the snowy winter all around them, and for all Draco knew the sheer heat of kissing Harry the way he was doing now would be enough to turn the ice to water, and he didn't care – because Harry was all he ever wanted, all he could ever ask for, and now, with Harry's mouth tenderly ravishing his own, he could feel nothing but complete. He was lost in the sensation of Harry's mouth under his own, Harry's arms wrapped around him, and it wasn't until a voice broke through the stillness that surrounded them that he realized that someone was standing over them, looking down.  

"Well, hallo, Draco," said a familiar voice. "You do seem to be busy." Draco felt Harry tense under him, his whole body going rigid with surprise. He sat up, flipping himself off Harry, who sat up as well next to him. They both stared, Harry in shock, Draco with resignation.  

"Rhysenn," he said. "You have horrible timing."  

The vixenish dark-haired girl cocked her head to the side and smiled. Today she was dressed in a long gold dress with a velvet train attached to it, and an impressive tiara that sparkled with what looked like real diamonds. Draco could not imagine how she had managed not to ruin her dress by dragging it through the snow, but she had.  

Rhysenn pouted. "Does that mean you're not glad to see me?"  

"I don't think "No" is a strong enough word in this case," said Draco. He wanted to be angry, but he was too conscious of the fact that Harry still had his arm looped around his waist, holding him tightly against his side. The pleasure of the contact and the greater pleasure of knowing that Harry wanted that contact as much as he did kept him from being able to be properly annoyed.  

"Well, don't mind me," said Rhysenn cheerfully. "Go on with what you were doing."  

Harry looked alarmed. "You're not serious."  

"Oh, no, I am," Rhysenn hastened to assure him. "I was really quite enjoying the whole thing."  

"I just bet you were," Draco muttered. Pitching his voice louder, he added, "Okay, this is a private moment you know. What exactly was it you wanted?"  

"I was going to give you your Christmas present," said Rhysenn cheerfully. "But now I see you already got what you wanted."  

Harry suddenly looked over at Draco, his green eyes wide. "Isn't that your cousin?" he said under his breath.  

"Uh-huh," said Draco, not taking his eyes of Rhysenn in case she was going to try something.  

"Wow," said Harry respectfully. "She's weird."  

Rhysenn plonked herself down in the snow and began to examine her nails, each of which was painted a pale gold color. "Don't mind me," she said. "I'm just going to hang around a bit and watch."  

"Oh, no you aren't," said Draco.  

"Please?"  

"No."  

"Why not?"  

"Because I said so."  

"Don't you even want your Christmas present?"  

"Not that badly."  

"Draco..."  

"No," said Draco firmly.  

"Oh, all right." With a vexed sort of sigh, Rhysenn stood up, drew something out of her voluminous sleeve, and tossed it to Draco, who caught it reflexively. It was a green umbrella, life-sized, with Draco's initials carved into the handle. "Merry Christmas," Rhysenn added, and vanished.  

Draco turned to Harry with some trepidation. "Sorry about that..."  

But Harry was grinning, his dark eyelashes threaded with silver snow. "Your family is bizarre," he said, reaching out to pull Draco closer to him. "How'd you wind up so normal?"  

"Normal? You think I'm normal?"  

"Well, if nothing else, you have excellent taste," said Harry, and kissed him again. For a timeless time they kissed and clung together in the cold snow, their touching mouths and hands the only necessary source of warmth. Draco felt so happy that it was almost painful. Harry was all he had ever wanted or needed, his base, his balance, his safe place to stand, and he could not now imagine that he would ever want for anything else.  

It was Draco who broke it off finally, not because he wanted to but because Harry was shivering, and gave him his hand to help him up from the ground. Hand in hand they walked back up the path towards school, and Draco no longer felt the cold at all, only the warm sensation of Harry beside him. They stopped to kiss in doorways and every few steps, becoming steadily more soaked with the falling snow until Draco had the bright idea to open up Rhysenn's green umbrella, which turned out to be waterproof. Alas, once they got to school Harry made a creative suggestion to which Draco was quite amenable, and in the ensuing activity the green umbrella was fatally squashed, but that's another story for another time.  

Harry's dream about being dead and seeing Draco in the Manor: I actually did write it, and cut it from the narrative because it was both too depressing, and fairly irrelevant in its entirety.  

Dream  

He found himself flummoxed at the library door, when his hands went through the knob. He stood for a moment, bewildered, before he remembered how Nearly Headless Nick had always drifted, effortlessly, through the castle walls. Gritting his teeth, he took a step forward, and walkedthroughthe door; it was like walking through wet, heavy tissue paper. He emerged on the other side, gasping a little, and stared around him. 

The library looked exactly the same as it always had. The same heavy, ancient furniture. The same blue-green stained glass windows casting their opaque squares of colour on the floor. All that was different was that the faint smell of pipe smoke that had always lingered there was gone. The hovering ladders still drifted in midair, waiting for someone to mount them and direct them to a high shelf. Standing by one of them was a slender blond young man, holding a brass-bound book in his hand. 

"Draco?" Harry said. 

Draco started and turned around, blinking. "Harry?" he said, instantly and astonished, and then his eyes lit on Harry and the book fell out of his hand and struck the floor. 

They stared at each other, man and ghost, for several long moment. Neither of them spoke. Harry couldn't stop staring - it was Draco, and yet somehow it wasn't. The boy he remembered, long-limbed and angular and just this side of gawky, was gone, vanished into this adult that Harry didn't know. Even his face was different. The features that had been so sharply pointed had smoothed slightly, and now Draco looked, must as Harry would never have wanted to admit it, like a younger version of his father. Blond, handsome, carefully dressed, impeccably groomed. Evenly cut hair, trimmed fingernails, only the faint silver scar under his right eye marking that extraordinary face. He smiled a little, looking at Harry: it was a grown man’s smile, politely regretful. "There are so many ghosts in this castle," he said. "But I never thought you would be one of them." 

"Ghost?" Harry looked down at himself again; he was still transparent. He could see the grain of the wood floor through his trainers. "I thought maybe this was just a dream. I'm dead, then?" 

"Yes. You're dead." Draco sat down on the edge of the desk. He was still staring at Harry, his eyes wide; there was something open in his face, something changed although it was not something that had been added but something that had been taken away. He seemed, somehow, incautious, lacking that diligent watchfulness Harry remembered. "Can you comecloser to me?" he asked. 

Harry went, and his feet made no noise on the floor as he walked. He paused in front of Draco and now they were eye-to-eye, and Draco raised his hand as if he would touch Harry's face. "You're dead," he said, again. "You died ten years ago. Somewhere in Romania, they said, although I was never sure..." He lowered his hand. "I had almost forgotten what you looked like," he said. "Almost." 

Harry bit his ghost lip with ghost teeth and felt no pain. "How did I die?" 

"You killed Voldemort," Draco said. "You saved the world. You saved us all." 

A strange relief swept through Harry. "So it was worth it," he said.  

"Worth it?" Draco shrugged, and that, at least, was familiar. "I couldn't tell you," he said. "I don't even know what happened. I wasn’t there when you died. I was hundreds of miles away. I thought I would have felt it, something breaking apart inside me…but I didn’t. I wish I had. They didn’t find your body right away, you know, and without that I refused to believe you were dead. I looked for you and looked for you and looked for you. And when we did find you, and I had to accept that you had died – I thought you might haunt me, I hoped you would, I prayed for it. I cursed your name, I said horrible things, I thought maybe if I railed against you enough you’d come back, even if it was just to curse me, even then…but you never came back. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised." He laughed a little, a grown man amused by the recollection of childhood excess. "You couldn’t be bothered with me in life, why would you have been bothered with me after you were dead?" 

"That’s not true," Harry said. "You were my best friend. We were like – like brothers – more than that, even." 

"Ron was your best friend," Draco said. "And you never had a brother, any more than I did; what did either of us know about family? I was just this thing you were tied to, like a weight around your neck. And you cut yourself free and you walked away and never looked back." 

Harry stood where he was. He felt shocked, in his faint and ghostly way, although not profoundly so. His heart, he assumed, was as insubstantial as the rest of him. "I couldn't look back," he said. "If I had, I wouldn't have been able to keep going, and I had to keep going." 

"I understand that," Draco said, and he sounded as though he meant it. 

"But you're angry," Harry said.  

"I wasangry," Draco said. "I hated you and I hated you and I hated you. I woke up hating you and I went to bed hating you. I dreamed about seeing you again just so I could kill you for going off and dying and leaving me. I know perfectly well that that's illogical, but people are illogical. Especially boys when they're seventeen. Although I suppose you wouldn't exactly have a lot of perspective on that, would you, since you never got any older." He cocked his head to the side. "You look just the same. Well, except for being transparent." 

"Don't," Harry said. "Don't say you hate me and then make jokes." 

"Oh, I don't hate youanymore."  Draco sounded a little surprised. 

"I thought maybe you did," Harry said. "I thought maybe me being here made it worse." 

"No." Draco shook his head. "There was a time," he said, "that I would have walked a thousand miles just to hear your voice again. Now…" He shrugged, that familiar gesture that was, in itself, like an elegant small symphony of lifted shoulders and raised eyebrows anddown curlingmouth. "Now, I don’t care. I don't hate you. I don't even hate the memory of you. You never tried to hurt me. I know that now. You did the best you could. You saved my life. You saved all our lives. You were the hero you were always supposed to be. You did great things, Harry Potter --" 

"Stop it." Harry wanted to shout, but couldn't; there simply wasn't enough force in his insubstantial lungs for it. "You must hate me. You wouldn't say things like that if you didn't." 

"Idon'thate you." Draco sounded slightly exasperated. "I just forgot about you. It happens, you know. Even great loves burn out, the best of friendships, the most desperate of dreams. You wouldn't understand, I suppose, you're still just a child, the ghost of a child. Chaos, Harry, wins out over everything in the end. Entropy beats us down. Everything fades. Everything goes. Even ..." He paused, as if he were trying to think of the right words, then broke off when a moment later the library door opened, and a woman came in. 

She was small and slender, and her dark brown hair was knotted up on the name of her neck. She wore pale blue robes that reminded Harry with an aching sort of pain of the blue robes she'd worn to the Yule Ball when she was fourteen years old. She came into the room and shut the door behind her, and turned around with a smile. "I got tired of waiting for you to come to bed, Draco," she said. "Aren't you tired?" 

Draco's eyes flicked to Harry, and then to Hermione by the door. It was apparent that she could not see Harry at all. He stood directly in her line of sight and she gazed through him at Draco, still with the same soft smile on her face. 

"Old ghosts keeping me up," Draco said, at last. 

Her smile faded. "Ghosts?" She crossed the room to him, and Harry stepped out of her way, but not quickly enough; her hand passed through his shoulder, making him shiver. She seemed to notice nothing. She went to the desk and twined her arms around Draco and he put his hands over hers where they crossed on his chest. She rested her chin on hisshoulder. Harry remembered the way she used to do that to him, leaning over his shoulder when he read. The curls of her hair tickling his face; the way her clothes smelled, like mint leaves, dry and sweet. "What kind of old ghosts?" 

"The kind that come back too late," Draco said. 

She looked up at that, her expression suddenly uncertain. Her eyes flicked around the room, and for a moment she looked directly at Harry, and he felt the force of her gaze on him, like the pressure of a blow. His heart knotted inside his chest. A faint line appeared between her eyes. She opened her mouth and for a moment Harry was sure she was going to say his name, but before she could speak Harry felt himself jerked backwards. He stumbled, and the room closed around him like a box slamming shut, plunging him into darkness. 

Draco Veritas ~ The Letters 

The False Letter 

To Draco 

It feels weird to be writing you a letter, but I thought if I didn't there'd be more of a chance that you would follow me, and I don't want you to follow me. I know you'll want to and you always think you can help me, but you can't help me now. I know I said that I would wait but I think that it's better if I don't wait -- I know what I promised, but I don't need to bring you with me so you can save my life. 

I've thought a lot about the tower, and what you said when we were up there, about this being my choice, and it's a choice with only one answer -- I have to save the world, don't I? 

Of course I do. 

I bet you're rolling your eyes right now, and thinking, "Belt up, Potter. Get to the point." You never did understand me. You couldn’t see me, the bad things about me, all the places where I'm just like you. Maybe you didn’t want to. Remember, I'll always have everything you ever taught me. How to duel, of course, and how to lie -- and how to be ruthless -- and I'll always remember that that's you. And I guess I have to be ruthless to you, too, in the end. And remember, you taught me how. I won't forget it, and I won't forget you either. But I hope you forget about me. 

-Harry  

The True Letter 

To Draco 

It feels weird to be writing you a letter, I've never written a letter to you before. You always know what I'm thinking so there never seemed to be any point. But you're asleep now and I think I should do this before you wake up. I know Snape has found an antidote for you -- I heard him say so to Dumbledore -- and I know what I promised -- I meant it, too. There are other things I thought you should know -- things I've never told you -- things I've never told anyone. 

But I don't know how to say them. 

Of all the hard things I have ever done in my life, this is the hardest. I've thought a lot about the tower, and what you said when we were up there, about this being my choice, between my friends and everything else. And I remembered when I said you should know what I'd choose -- but you didn't. Sometimes I think you don't see me, the bad things about me, all the places where I'm flawed and no different than anyone else. I'm not that special. And I'd choose you. 

See what I mean? I'm selfish, and I only think about myself, and what kind of traits are those for someone who has to save the world? But then again, there isn't anyone else. Maybe I'm expendable, maybe it doesn't matter, maybe I'm beingoversentimental and I know how much you would hate that, and I bet you're rolling your eyes right now, and thinking, "Belt up, Potter. Get to the point." 

Only I don't think you'll like the point, either. 

I guess I'm saying I thought about it again and realized it's a choice with only one answer. If I want to save my friends, I have to save the world, don't I? Everyone who's ever gone off and fought a war has probably fought it for the people they love and not some abstract ideal. So remind Hermione, if she needs reminding. And remind Lupin and remind Sirius and remind the Weasleys, because they've been so good to me always -- remind them that I'm not really leaving. I'm not leaving any of you. I take you all with me everywhere I go. 

And especially you. Even if you hate me for this, and its okay if you do hate me, just remember I'm not really going without you. I'll still have everything you ever taught me -- every time I use that sword and don't cut off my own hand with it, every time I remember to stop and think before I act, every time I don't do some stupid rash thoughtless thing, every time I recognize a lie when I hear one, every time I don't go along with something just to be polite, every time I can be ruthless when I have to be -- and that's a good thing, Malfoy -- every time, I'll remember that that's you. That's what you taught me. I don't need to bring you with me so you can save my life. You've saved my life already and you save it every day whether you're with me or not. 

- Harry