1

Draco Malfoy sat at a table at the Three Broomsticks with a warm glass of butterbeer between his hands. He had chosen a table at the back against the long, low, windowless wall. It had been almost three years since he had been anywhere near Hogwarts, but he wasn’t keen on being recognized by anyone. Not that anyone would necessarily know him to see him these days; it had been some time since his name was being whispered in the dark corners of this place, and his picture hadn’t been glaring angrily up at readers of the Daily Prophet in ages. And he had grown up, grown broader, more tired-looking. His hair, once so finely kept, was overgrown and scraggly around the edges. He doubted anyone would note his presence in the slightest. All the same, he preferred to take his respite seriously and kept a low profile, even here. He rubbed the spot on his arm where the Dark Mark lay under his woolen robes and shivered from the cold November draught from the door.

The wind was whipping around the windows, which rattled in their casings. Winter was on its way, in no uncertain terms, and the wizarding folk were positively giddy. When it was first widely known that Voldemort had returned, the general mood even here in Hogsmede had been glum; but in the last good year and a half the Death Eaters had been silent, and even before then all that had been heard were vague rumours and movements of negligible importance. What had promised to be the beginning of another long and difficult war had dissipated into nothing. He watched jolly-looking wizards and witches bustling in and out of Three Broomsticks, talking loudly and unconcernedly, slapping each other on the back and laughing out loud. One plump witch waddled inside with her arms laden with packages; the holidays were beginning rather earlier than normal.

Draco pulled out a slim book, folded its cover back, and settled in for the evening, unnoticed and unremarked upon. His appointment in Hogsmeade was still several days from now; he intended to enjoy this little holiday, even if it all felt bittersweet and empty. It was nice, for once, to be surrounded by people who didn’t know what he knew.

Draco was seven chapters in, and halfway through his third butterbeer, when he felt a set of eyes on him. He tensed slightly but didn’t move. After a moment, he knew whose eyes they were. He tipped his book down and sighed. It had been a long time, and Draco had no idea what to say.

Harry.

He turned slightly, and met those green eyes. He expected to see anger, disgust, horror, disappointment, hatred, accusation, judgment in those eyes. He had expected at least a decent ‘I told you so’ look. Perhaps ‘so, you’re knocked off your high horse now, aren’t you?’ look. Surely a ‘How dare you show up in here’. But those eyes said none of these things. They were unreadable.

That was something that had certainly changed. Harry’s eyes had always shown exactly how he felt. In their Hogwarts days, Draco could always tell when he had pushed Harry’s buttons; he even knew when the teachers were wrongly accusing him of not paying attention, or when he was protecting someone, when he was hiding something. But now, with a space of three years and twelve feet between them, Draco had no idea what Harry was thinking. He was sitting alone a table over from Draco, butterbeer in hand, muddy boots leaving prints under the table, looking intently at him, unabashedly.

Harry.

Draco couldn’t look away, not even if he had wanted to. He knew he was facing a duty he had neglected far too long. There were words he had to say to Harry. Words that terrified him, chilled his bones. His face was impassive, though he knew the range of emotions he felt were visible to those unreadable green eyes. He knew it like he knew the taste of butterbeer. He knew that Harry was witnessing his fear, shame, dread, his hope, sadness, anger, and a few other emotions he preferred to not name to himself.

Courage was not a quality that Draco regularly identified with himself. He knew he was strong, he knew he could endure untold horrors without tears and without complaint. But facing his own mistakes, his own failures and missteps, took a form of strength that was foreign to him. And yet, for the past three years had had been contemplating this reunion, and he knew he couldn’t turn away from those eyes without acknowledging what had passed between himself and this equally tired-looking, rain-dampened man.

He smiled caustically, dropping his book and grabbing his butterbeer, standing up and walking the few feet over to Harry’s table. Harry’s eyes followed his movements. Draco sat down next to him, breaking eye contact and staring sadly into his hands folded on his lap.

"Hello, Harry." He said, attempting to sound jovial. Harry said nothing. Draco glanced up at him. His face remained unreadable. What have I done? "Harry…" he started. He reached over and touched his hand. Harry didn’t move, didn’t tense or flinch. He didn’t react at all. What have I done?

2 

It must have been close to midnight when Harry heard someone moving at the upper end of the stairs. He was poised on the second step, heading up, and he froze, with one foot barely touching the marble. He was safely hidden under his invisibility cloak, but the darkness was heavy in the large, open, musty stairwell, and he couldn’t make out who it was. Hagrid had been moping; one of his favourite new beasts, a three-tailed African wildebeast, had been ‘liberated’ from his little stone house beside the forest, and was being housed, temporarily, in one of the large upper chambers of Hogwarts. Only until someone from the Ministry came to take him to back to West Africa where he belongs, of course. Hagrid worried that he was lonely, locked away up there, and Harry promised he would bring him the large, rough salt lick Hagrid had forgotten to bring earlier. It was heavy in his hand, pressed against his thigh.

He listened. He could hear frantic pacing, but he couldn’t tell if it was coming or going. He could hear the feet, slap slap, passing away from where above his head to the left. Taking a deep breath, he trotted quickly by silently up the stairs, and made a sharp right turn, and looked behind him.

At the end of the hall behind him he saw a group of unfamiliar-looking, barrel-chested men. "He’s this way." One of them said forcefully. The rest grunted in answer. The first man nodded, and began walking toward Harry.

He felt panicked. Not now, I can’t get caught now! he thought. How could they know that I’m here? He clutched the gigantic salt lick against his leg and shoved himself backward into the first available door, which was slightly ajar, closing it slowly behind him. It made no noise. Moving to the side of the door, back against the wall, he listening intently. He heard the footfalls outside and the heavy breathing of the large, strange men, but also another, softer noise in the room with him. He looked around, apprehensive.

He was in a small, windowless room, more like a closet than anything else. There were several small tables, some stacked chairs, a pair of old Quidditch brooms with most of their bristles gone, and, most strikingly, a small couch with a boy lying on it. It was just to the right of the door, barely two feet in front of him. The boy was lying on his back, one hand nearly touching the floor, the other open on his chest, palm down. He wore no robe, but was dressed all in black; an alternative to the invisibility cloak, no doubt. It was Draco Malfoy.

What on earth is Malfoy doing here? Harry was boggled. It was midnight, and here he was, fast asleep in a closet in the middle of a nearly-abondoned wing of Hogwarts. Before he had time to consider it longer, he heard the unknown other men stop in front of the door.

"Yes, right here." He saw the door open slightly, and a thick-necked head peer in, seeing Draco asleep on the couch. He rolled his eyes. Great. "When Lucius arrives he’ll relieve you of that." The man sounded annoyed. "You can wait for him here." There was a thump of a heavy hand rapping against the door. Draco awoke startled, and jumped up. "Be ready, young Malfoy!" the voice shouted. He looked around, seeming momentarily confused, and then he whole body tensed. Harry couldn’t imagine worse luck; here he was, locked in a room with Draco, invisible, but trapped. He wondered what some secret and probably evil purpose brought the Malfoys together at Hogwarts at midnight, clearly on the sly. Curious as he was to find out, he hoped that when Lucius opened the door and entered, he could sneak out, and leave the Malfoys to their father-son tete-a-tete. But for the moment he was trapped here. He leaned against the wall, hoping to stay as invisible as possible. He breathed as quietly as he could. Draco seemed suddenly to remember where he was, and sighed, sitting back down on the couch with heavily resignation, looking utterly dejected. He leaned back against the couch, head thrown back.

Harry remembered the first time he had laid eyes on Draco in Diagon Alley. He had been so small, eleven years old, fine and delicate, with a sharp face and pale skin. He had striking blonde hair and gray eyes like a thundercloud, so that his presence was constantly underscored with a smoky, almost ethereal glow. If Harry didn’t know better, if would feel that that glow was like a halo. When Draco turned those silvery, stormy eyes at you, Harry thought, you felt it, like a liquid metal hand reaching out and placing its cold fingers on your spine. Now, at age seventeen, Draco was still delicate, still fine boned. He’d grown into himself, filled up the space that waited to claim him, and his ethereal presence was magnified. His still gray eyes were darker, more damp, like thunderclouds about to drop their collective drops of rain down onto your up-turned face, more–

Harry suddenly realized that he was watching Draco cry. His eyes had become dewy, his Adam’s apple jerking up and down rapidly. He made no noise, except for his increasingly rapid breathing. Draco pulled his feet up onto the couch, and laid his chin on his knees, closing his eyes. Tears streamed down his cheeks. Harry noticed for the first time that he had tremendously long eyelashes.

He took no pleasure in watching Draco’s anguish; Harry felt as though he were violating some kind a sacred, private space, as if he had walked right into Draco’s head, and yet he could not turn away. When he heard the one, soft, almost imperceptable whimper, Harry felt his heart melt. No matter how cruel the beast, how could anyone not feel sorry for him when he was so trapped and hopeless? Harry presumed Draco had done something dreadful, or was about to, and steeled himself.

Outside the room, he heard sharp footsteps. Lucius. After some short words outside the door, He stormed into the room with his wand lit and his coat dripping from the rain outside. "Draco," he hissed. "Come here, boy." Draco seemed to shrink, looking painfully frail next to his tall, menacing father. In a flash, Harry saw a swinging arm, heard a dreadful thump, and saw Draco collapse on the floor. He struggled to stand, only to be thumped back to the floor again. Outside, he heard the grunts of the men waiting at the door. "Janus!" Lucius called out. "Wait there, Janus, I need a word with you. I trusted you to bring me this boy…" Eyeing Draco, Lucius hissed through his teeth, "Wait here. I’m not done with you yet." He was still pulling himself to his feet when Lucius hauled back and clubbed him with the full force, throwing him brokenly back to the floor. He stormed back out the room, leaving the door ajar.

For a split second, Harry considered slipping out behind him. He looked at Draco, collapsed and bleary-eyed in front of him on the floor, and he knew, with a resigned kind of knowing, there was only one reasonable option.

"Malfoy." He said, just loudly enough to get Draco’s attention. He looked confused. Harry parted the cloak and revealed himself. "Come here, I’ll hide you." A mixture of emotions passed across Draco’s face in a matter of moments; confusion, anger, embarassment, hope, and then a strange sort of non-chalance.

"You have a cloak of invisibility, Potter? Do you spy on me often? How long have you been here?" His voice was ragged. With his tear-stained face and a bit of blood dripping from his nose, Draco was still trying to maintain his typical pompous air.

"I got here just a moment or two ago. Do you want me to help you, or not?" Harry pulled the large salt lick out of his bag and laid it against the wall beside him. They heard sharp footsteps in the hall again. A spasm of fear crossed Draco’s face, and he moved toward Harry, who was leaning against the wall beside the door. Just as Lucius loomed back inside the room, Harry raised his arms, Draco took a step closer to him, and he surrounded Draco with the cloak.

Harry had his arms wrapped loosely around Draco’s shoulders, clutching the edges of the cloak. Draco’s breath was warm on Harry’s neck, and his hair grazed Harry’s cheek. Draco had one hand on his chest when he leapt into Harry’s cloak, and Harry could feel his elbow on his stomach. Draco’s other hand was pressed against the wall through the cloak just above Harry’s hipbone. Harry was suddenly very concious of both the Draco’s wrist and his elbow with each breath that drew their bodies temporarily closer, and then farther apart.

"Draco!" Lucius shouted. Draco cringed, and drew inches closer to Harry, Curling his head down toward Harry’s shoulder. Lucius stomped. "Gavin, you fool!" He shouted. "Get in here! Where is my boy?" They heard another set of footsteps. Draco moved closer again to Harry, who moved his arms tighter around him, closing the cloak safely over them both. Draco was trembling, whether in fear, shock, or pain, Harry couldn’t tell. He could feel Draco’s rapid breathing on his neck, his mouth now so close that he could feel his intake of air as well his hot breath. He felt a drop of liquid hit his collarbone; whether a tear or blood, Harry couldn’t be sure. He was shocked by the tenderness that he felt for Draco; seeing him so vulnerable had made Harry momentarily forget their long and antagonistic history. For the moment, they were two boys, one injured, both shaking and both afraid. "He’s escaped! How could you let him escape? What’s this?" Lucius was right next to them. He found the salt lick. Harry shifted very slightly away from Lucius to the left, pressing himself closer to the door, and Draco shifted with him, silently. He could feel Draco’s forehead touch his shoulder.

"Gavin, what is this? My son has disappeared, or turned into…this? JANUS! Gavin, find me Janus quickly, time is running out I haven’t time to play stupid games, you know the rest are waiting." Heavy steps clomped out of the room, and Lucicus followed softly after him with his sharp, crisp footsteps. The boys didn’t move for a moment, waiting for the footsteps to disappear down the hallway. Finally, Draco lifted his head, brushing his cheek against Harry’s. After another moment, he stepped back. Harry dropped his arms from Draco’s shoulders, freed him from his cloak.

"Well." Draco was red in the face, and fumbled a little. Harry saw that his nose was puffy and red, one of his eyes was swelling shut, and he was favouring one of his legs over the other. He was doing his best to maintain his composure, but was failing badly. Whether from pain, fear, or from shock at Harry’s sudden appearance or his willingness to help him or all of this put together, Harry didn’t hazard a guess.

He sighed. "Let’s get out of here. Best get back under the cloak, until we’re sure we won’t be seen." Draco looked at him gratefully for a moment, and then looked away.

"Yes, I suppose you’re right, Potter. It wouldn’t do for either of us to get caught tonight." His voice was ragged. He clearly was about to start in on another cry, but was withholding it as best he could.

Harry stepped out of the cloak and wrapped it around Draco’s shivering shoulders. "I’ll take the lead. I don’t think you’ll see so well with that eye." Draco went red, and Harry regretted mentioning it. He stood in front of him and pulled the cloak around his own shoulders, He could feel Draco’s body on his back. As he took a step, Draco yelped. "What is it?" Harry whispered. "My ankle," Draco grunted. "I think it’s broken." Harry sucked his teeth. "Well," he said after a moment, put your arms around my neck and lean on me. That should help a bit, but we’ll have to move slowly." Draco hesitated, and then did as he was told. There really weren’t too many other options. Harry felt Draco’s trembling arms around his neck, and momentarily thought about all the duels he and Draco had engaged in, all the spells thrown at each other. He touched the arms at his neck, and said, "You hold on to the cloak then."

He wondered for a moment if Draco would betray him. But how could he? If he dropped the cloak, he would make both of them visible, and he would lose his crutch and fall. And while Harry would get into trouble, he would probably get detention, but Draco would probably suffer far, far worse at the hands of his father. Harry decided that if ever he could trust Draco, it was now, when it seemed that it was his own skin that was at stake.

Together, they snuck slowly out of the room into the empty hallway. They could hear footfalls in the distance, and hurried as best they could. As he walked, he could feel Draco’s arms tighten and release around his collarbone, hands clutching at his shoulders and chest, and could feel Draco’s tired and broken body pressed against his back and his legs. Draco’s breath rasped against his neck. Harry reached a stairwell, unsure of whether to take it. He stood for a moment, thinking, and absent-mindedly stroked Draco’s arm. "We’re almost safe, Draco, just a set of stairs now, careful." One step at a time, with great wincing from Draco, they managed to get down the stairs and into a quiet corridor on the main floor. Sensing Draco’s exhaustion, he turned to one of the doors on his right, finding a quiet study. Harry was relieved to see a large, long couch there covered with pillows. He closed the door behind them and lead Draco to the couch.

"Here," Harry said, turning and removing the cloak from Draco’s hands, running his palms up Draco’s arms to his shoulders. The cloak dropped to the ground, and the two boys clutched each other. "Sit down here a moment. Let me see how hurt you are, maybe we can fix it for now."

Draco obeyed, eyeing Harry curiously. He lay down, propped up on a series of velvet cushions, half-reclined. Harry first looked at Draco’s ankle, tracing the swelling gently with his fingertips. It was badly swollen and turning a deep, angry colour that Harry could see spreading even in the half-light on the room. Draco flinched. "Sorry," Harry said. "It doesn’t look good at all. You’ll have to go to the hopsital wing." Draco’s shot him a look. "Not yet." He said. "Not until my father leaves. He have to leave shortly to apparate back for the meeting before 3am. That’s what always happens." He was getting his wits back now, though one of his eyes was swelling and crying incessantly. Rather than ask about this meeting, Harry shifted toward him, took out a hankerchief from his pocket, and began daubing at Draco’s eye. Draco looked at him calmly and steadily.

"What do you want for this, Potter?" He said this softly but matter of factly, as though Harry were not wiping his tearing eye, sitting on his heels in front of him. "Want?" Harry asked. Draco snatched the hankerchief and moped the blood from his nose. "Why was your father so angry with you?"

"Come on, Potter. What will it take to keep you quiet?" Just as he said this, they heard someone running down the stairs. "Harry, Quick!" Draco whispered. He motioned to Harry to grab the cloak. Harry nodded, and climbed, delicately, over and beside Draco, who threw the cloak over them both.

Harry found that he was face first into a pillow, one leg between Draco’s, in an attempt to avoid his bad ankle. He had one arm under a pillow, the other curled up on against Draco’s chest. He turned his head to breathe, and found that his lips brushed against Draco’s. He hesitated, feeling that cool, damp skin on his. One moment, two. Neither boy moved. Suddenly he felt Draco’s lips careful grab onto his lower lip, his tongue tracing a delicate line across it, and then let go.

Now, what, Harry wondered, was that about? He would have jumped up if he didn’t hear footsteps in the hall and angry shouting. But at the same time, he wasn’t sure, he just wasn’t sure. He barely moved at all.

Suddenly they heard the door open, and a light entered the room. Suddenly they could see, if only a little, under the cloak. They were both staring at each other. Draco’s good eye didn’t blink. His bad one was still crying. The light disappeared again, bodies wandered out of the room, and the door shut. Harry moved his hand up Draco’s chest and touched his face, wiping away those incessant tears. After a moment, Draco’s lips enclosed Harry’s, his tongue probed his mouth, twisting around his tongue, teasing his lips. Draco tasted of rich things, pumpkin juice, cloves, and the metallic taste of blood. Harry followed suit. Draco’s hand rested on the back of Harry’s neck, fingers in his hair, while his other hand landed on the bare skin of his hip. He slid his hand slowly up under Harry’s shirt, across his back. Harry broke out of the kiss, gasping at the sensations. Draco breathed into Harry’s neck, trailing his lips on that delicate skin, and laying small, wet kisses on his collarbone.

Harry had stopped thinking. He slid his hand down Draco’s shirted chest, across his stomach. Finding bare flesh, he traced his fingers up over Draco’s bare stomach, which quivered under his hand. Draco had smooth, soft skin, the way Harry imagined a girl’s skin would feel. His chest was hairless and heaving, his nipples hardening under Harry’s hands. Draco, lost in the Harry’s neck made a small, barely perceptable noise, a moan, and Harry was reminded of that sad, hopeless boy crying on the couch. He tugged Draco’s shirt up, and Draco wordlessly agreed and helped Harry pull it off over his head. Harry ran his hands over Draco’s torso, licked his nipples, then grabbed on to Draco’s lip with his teeth. Draco unbuttoned Harry’s shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, pulling Harry on top of him. Draco kissed Harry deeply, hungrily, burying his fingers in his hair, shifting his legs to bring Harry closer to him, and cried out in pain when he knocked his ankle against Harry’s knee.

"Careful." Harry whispered. He traced Draco’s face with his hands, ran his fingers through his hair, listened to Draco’s rapid breathing. What was he doing? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t know why, but Draco’s body was calling to him. He wanted to know it, to touch it, he wanted to comfort Draco, and know him like this, vulnerable, strong, daring, and afraid all at the same time. He wanted him, and didn’t recognize the feeling. He traced Draco’s delicate collarbone, kissing the bones where they jutted out, swirling his tongue in the hollows. Underneath his left nipple, Harry found the first slim, white scar. His traced it, kissed it, wondered where it came from. He ran his fingers over the boy’s body as he never had any body before, exploring where muscles rose and feel, where the resistance of ribs met soft, giving flesh, where skin creased, folding into hip, dipping into navel. He explored Draco’s body with his fingers, his tongue, his lips, his skin, and everywhere, more slim scars. When he found the seventh, eighth, ninth, and then began to lose count, he realized what they were; they were signs that Draco had been innocent once too. There was a time when in his innocent blood had been powerful. Harry had one famous scar, a scar that saved him, reminded him, marked him. Draco had dozens of secret scars, and each one had stolen away what innocence he had left. Harry touched each one tenderly, convinced, at least for the moment, that he could give back was had been stolen away from Draco with just the right touch.

Draco moaned as he felt Harry’s tongue, lips on his flesh, and felt his eyelashes, long eyelashes he had admired from the first time he saw Harry in Diagon Alley, brush against his stomach. He felt Harry finding his scars. He wondered if he knew, and realized that there was no way he could know, really. He remembered the first, the first he had a memory of, standing naked at midnight in front of a bonfire, a crowd, his father with a sliver knife slicing him quickly on his chest, catching the blood, his own scream, and tears. He was four years old. His blood mingled with the tongues of fire, which turned maroon and rumbled. He had realized then, and continued to realize, that his body was valuable, and that people he trusted, people he loved, would hurt him when they need him. But Harry needed his body too, Draco sensed that. But this need was different. He felt Harry’s response to these scars, when he began to realize what they might be. He was touched, charmed. Damn, Draco thought. Harry’s tenderness, his concern, his mere innocence in not knowing about these scars, not having them, broke Draco’s heart. Harry had a depth of innocence that had never been tapped, never could be. Recognizing it, he was not scornful; he was participating in it, he bathed in it, he felt regenerated in it. He made him tremble with a feeling he had no name for. Harry stroked Draco’s thighs through his trowsers and kissed him just above the buckle of his belt.

From outside, they heard steps again. Harry froze, looking down and realizing he was half out of the cloak. He sat up, pull off the cloak and readjusted it. Draco sat up too, shivering a little. Harry could see his form in the moonlight, his skin looking blue and rain-streaked like the window in the darkness. Shadows covered most of his face, and his mussed hair fell over his forehead. Harry grabbed up their clothes from the floor and stuffing them under the cushions. The footsteps, still at a distance, sounded as though they were approaching from the right. Harry took Draco in his arms and wrapped them both in the cloak, urging him to lie back.

The footsteps got closer. They could hear voices outside. "Gavin!" It was Lucius. Harry could feel Draco’s skin turn cold. That night he had begun to understand why Draco might be so afraid of his father. He loosed a hand and ran it through Draco’s hair, down his jaw, Draco’s earlobe between his lips. "Gavin, that boy has escaped me AGAIN. Lord Voldemort will be very angry, do you know what that means?" Harry took a sharp intake of breath. Voldemort? "If there’s no Malfoy child in the new Death Eater ranks tonight, Voldemort will question my loyalty! That fool! That traitorous boy!" The footsteps passed them in the corridor outside, and disappeared somewhere toward the front hall of Hogwarts.

Draco felt limp in Harry’s arms. After a few moments, he sighed heavily. "He’s gone to Hogsmeade to apparate now," he whispered.

Harry frowned. "You were supposed to become a Death Eater tonight?" It was a question, but he already knew the answer. Draco had always made it clear that he was in support of Voldemort; it was only him and his friends who cheered Voldemort on when he had returned, after he had almost killed Harry. There was no question that Lucius was a Death Eater; no one had expected anything less from his son.

"I was supposed to get my Mark." Draco said this quickly, cockily, not keen to discuss it. "Aren’t you pleased, Potter?" His voice went cold and he sat up, shaking Harry off him. "I betrayed my father, I avoided him twice, he wants to take me from Hogwarts before I finish the term, but I don’t want to. I ran from him like a coward just now and I won’t be at his side with Voldemort tonight." He moved to touch his ankle, grunting unhappily at the pain.

"Draco." Harry put a hand on his shoulder. Draco shuddered and closed his eyes. "What, Potter? What more do you want from me? Wasn’t this enough to keep you quiet? What else do I need to do?"

Harry’s jaw dropped. He sat back in the darkness, suddenly feeling very cold and very naked. Did Draco kiss him blackmail him? To keep him from talking? He felt sick to his stomach. What kind of spell was he under? Why did he want to kiss him in the first place? Malfoy is a guy. He slid his hand off Draco’s shoulder and dropped it limply into his lap. What is happening to me? Why did wish he hadn’t spoken?

Draco rolled his eyes at himself, keenly feeling the loss of Harry’s hand. He had always admired Harry; even as he hated him, he had admired him. He knew Harry didn’t respond to him in order to take advantage of his weakness, his sadness, his injury; he knew it, if only for a few moments. He was even starting to understand that Harry simply wasn’t capable of using him the way that Draco himself had used people, the way he had been used. Harry seemed to believe that beautiful things, intimate things, couldn’t be corrupt or corrupted. Draco, on the other hand, was only too aware of the innate corruptability of everything, especially beautiful things. Sex could be a means to an end, a tool, a method of exacting a price. He had learned this long ago. His own physical response, his own desire to be touched had been used against him, and he had used it against others. But this, this was different.

The last few minutes (how long had it been?) had been intense; if Harry had asked him, chin on his belt buckle, the taste of his scars in his mouth, if he needed him, wanted him, even if he loved him, Draco would have been truthful. He had felt it when he saw Harry appeared in a flash of emptiness; he had felt it when he could feel Harry’s stomach pressing into his elbow under the cloak; he felt it even more profoundly when he clutched at Harry’s chest, his human crutch. When Harry’s lips brushed his, his body so close, Draco became lost in this strange, powerful, completely foreign sensation. He forgot–temporarily–that it could be any other way. Now, distanced from that intimacy Draco felt scared, suspicious. He didn’t want trust Harry anymore. He didn’t want to have to depend on him. He didn’t want to look into those eyes and hope that he saw something in them that he recognized in himself. He wasn’t grateful. He’s seen me cry, Draco thought. How humiliating. Now here he was, half-naked in front of his enemy. I hate him.

"Draco," Harry repeated firmly, sadly. Draco swallowed his feelings of disappointment, of longing, of sadness, of guilt in his familiar way as he felt Harry leave the couch. "You’re going to leave me here now? How’s that play with that Gryffindor honour, Potter?" Draco snapped. He felt far more wretched than he sounded.

He heard Harry sigh heavily, and looked up at him. The moon was gleaming through the window, projecting a silver-blue rain pattern on Harry’s skin. He is beautiful, there is no question. When Draco looked at him, he saw himself all over him; his fingers in that mussed hair, his lips on that neck, his tongue on those lips. He watched Harry stand in the moonlight, looking through the long, narrow, leaded window behind them, and shiver a little in the cool air. Harry stood there, covered with Draco’s fingerprints, his marks, his skin held this memory of him, but Draco was painfully aware that Harry was not his, and not under his control. "No," He said, in that same sad tone. "I’m not going to leave you." He paused, balling his shirt in his hands. Draco watched his muscles moving in his chest. He tried to stand up, but, finding his ankle increasingly worse, he failed. "Tell me, Draco." Harry stated simply. "Do you really think…" he didn’t know how to word the rest of his sentence.

Draco sighed, leaning back. "Don’t make me get sensitive, Potter." His voice sounded softer and more apologetic when he had intended to sound sarcastic, but watching Harry like this, seeing his phantom self entwined with him, broke down his nonchalant guise. Harry’s face turned toward him. Draco was shocked at how nervous he was, being looked at. He pretended to look down at his ankle.

Harry sat down again, so close his was almost nose to nose with Draco. His eyes held a question, but he said nothing. If you don’t want this, Draco, he thought, then don’t respond to me. Don’t kiss me, and then this will be over. He brought his hand to Draco’s chin, forced him to look him in the face. Harry looked into Draco’s stormy grey eyes. He looked all at once defiant, pleading, and afraid. He closed his eyes, unable to bear Harry’s intense, honest, sad stare. Harry leaned into him, his lips less than an inch from Draco’s, slightly parted, breathing slowly. Draco felt that breath, he could feel the warmth of those lips but not could not taste them. Part of him broke. He moved that crucial inch toward Harry, kissing him violently. Well. Harry thought. Now I know. Draco lies when he’s afraid. He kissed him without rebuke.

Harry dropped his shirt to the floor, enveloping Draco in his arms. "Harry," he whispered, softly, gently, a tone Harry had never heard him use. His voice, without malice or deceit behind it, was musical, careful, grave. That moment was like crystal, and Harry was afraid to break it. He laid one careful hand on Draco’s stomach, caressing him gently. Draco shuddered. "Lie down, Harry," he said raggedly, sadly, desperately. Harry looked into his eyes. They were clear, open, afraid, certain. Draco had remembered how much he did not hate Harry Potter.

Harry lay down, as Draco shifted himself (carefully, wincingly, and with some help from Harry) on to his side, propping himself up on an elbow against the couch. "I am full of grace, am I not, Harry?" he whispered. Harry smiled at him. "Am I not a vision of beauty?" he said out loud, pointing at his eye. Harry almost laughed. "You are, indeed, Draco," he said. "You are indeed." His joke turned genuine, and Draco knew it. He is so good, even to me. He kissed him softly, playing with his free hand over Harry’s chest, his stomach, feeling Harry’s heart beat faster, his body swaying with his hand. Draco moved his head down, and took one of Harry’s nipples into his mouth, sucking at it, licking circles around it, teasing its sensitive tip. Harry moaned, and Draco smiled into his skin. He felt the tight smoothness of Harry’s flesh, clean of marks and scars, like a newborn.

"Don’t be afraid now," he whispered, perhaps more to himself than to Harry. While he toyed with Harry’s nipple, Draco ran his fingers delicately over Harry’s body, watching him tremble. For a boy who had spent most of his life in acts of cruelty, Draco had a surprisingly gentle touch, and now, lying beside the Boy Who Lived, he enjoyed the incredible responsiveness of Harry’s body. Like every other time in Harry’s life, he responded with his entire self, with a gravity and honesty that Draco found humbling. You make me feel so brave and so scared at the same time, he thought. How do I say goodbye to you?

They stood under the invisibility cloak in front of the hospital wing. "What will you tell her?" Harry asked, looking down at Draco’s purple, swollen ankle.

"I’ll tell her I kicked the bedpost and fell out of bed," said leisurely. "And you? What are you going to tell Weasley?"

"He won’t notice any difference. I was supposed to be delivering something for Hagrid tonight anyway." He shurgged. He wondered if he answered the right question.

Draco turned and looked at him, pulling off the invisibility cloak. He rose up to his full height, wincing on his broken ankle, looking Harry in the eye, embarassed, sad, scared, haughty, and proud all at once. Harry smiled, and covered himself in the cloak. Draco beckoned to him with a short motion of his hand, and Harry approached him, invisible, meeting Draco’s lips in one last lingering kiss. Draco stroked his cheek, broke away, and limped into the hospital wing. "Madam Pomfrey!" he shouted. Harry waited until he saw her arrive at the door, tut-tutting. Then he slipped away, back to the Gryffindor tower.

3 

"Harry!" Ron was astonished. "Did you see that?" Ron was gathering the contents of his bag from the floor of the hallway outside the potions dungeon. Draco had walked out of class, glanced at Harry, and walked around Ron’s papers and quills instead of walking on them, as he used to. "What’s got into him? Not a word out of him, not a one!"

"Oh, stifle it, Ron!" Hermione was disapproving. It had been all over the Daily Prophet for weeks. The Dark Mark had been seen in the sky again, blueish gray; a large number of Death Eaters had met again; three members of the ministry had been killed. There were a number of notable absences in and outside of the Ministry; some highly placed officials had disappeared, and there was a rumour that Lucius Malfoy had not been seen by anyone in some time. The doors of Azkaban were rattling again. Even then, weeks later, rumour and innuendo were thick. Where they had gone was unclear, though the Daily Prophet was full of possible sightings, unexplained murders, celestial prophesies. There was much whispering in the halls at Hogwarts, and meals had become much less cheery.

Hermione bent down, helping Ron gather his things. "I’m sure you’d feel a bit glum too if you dad had up and vanished." Hermione had been feeling much more like defending Draco since he had stopped referring to her as ‘the mudblood’. He had even become to be moderately polite to her.

"He hasn’t said a word about my folks in ages." Ron wasn’t about to be halted. "Harry? What do you make of it? His father gone, but he didn’t go with him?" He leaned toward his friends. "Do you think he could be a spy for…you know who?"

"I doubt it, Ron." Harry sighed.

"But you never know." Ron stuck to his story. Hermione sniffed. "Well, I’m off to class." Hermione turned on her heel and marched off, almost running right into Draco. "Oh! She said, startled. "Excuse me!"

Draco smiled thinly. "My apologies, Hermione." She smiled graciously at him. "I’ll see you in care of magical creatures, Draco." He nodded, and Hermione turned around and gave Ron a look. Ron scowled.

Draco raised an eyebrow at Ron, and turned to Harry. "A word, Potter?" Harry nodded. Ron’s jaw dropped, and then he sighed. This place has gone simply mad these days. Up is down, down is up, and Harry and Malfoy are chatting it up in the hall. "Don’t turn your back on him, Harry." Ron shot Draco a look as he started to rush after Hermione. Draco reached down and picked up a quill at his feet.

"Weasley. I believe this belongs to you?" Draco blinked calmly, handing the quill to Ron.

"Um, yes, thanks Malfoy." Ron grabbed it, shuffled it into his bag, and mumbled, "It’s probably hexed," toward Harry. Harry smiled, knowing full well Draco had heard.

"Of course it is Weasley," he drawled. "It will force you to write to your mother about all the stuff you and Granger get up to in the common room after hours." Draco was a picture of poise and decorum. Ron blushed crimson, and ran down the corridor.

Draco sighed, and looked at his feet, both perfectly healed, with two wide open eyes. "He started it." He grinned evilly. Harry laughed. "He did indeed."

They hadn’t spoken in weeks, not since Harry escorted Draco to the hospital wing. Neither of them was strictly avoiding the other, and they did make eye contact, smile sadly at each other, and go on making potions, playing Quiddich, eating dinner, continuing with their lives. Harry had been less antagonistic, and Draco had ceased his relentless teasing. In general, it was barely noted. The world was about to be pitched into another war; everyone felt it brewing. Nothing seemed the same anymore. If anything, observers, like Hermione, attributed the changed Draco to the supposed loss of his father, or the fact that he appeared to have been left behind. Everyone knew that Harry had a lot on his mind, Voldemort having fully returned.

Now, standing in the hallway with Harry, the great, vaulted ceiling above them, Draco paused. He said simply, "I hope you’re well, Harry."

"I am, Draco. You?" Harry spoke softly.

Draco smiled. "I’m alright."

Harry nodded. "You’ll be safe, then?"

"Well." He set his mouth in a tough line. "Safe? Probably not. I don’t think you want to hear about it."

"I thought...I thought you decided against all that..that…." Harry looked confused.

Pause.

"Harry…I am what I am. You are what you are. I…I can’t pretend I’m anything else. I’m going to finish the year, and what happens after that, I don’t know. I can’t make any promises."

"…but…"

Draco sighed. "I know. If I weren’t a Malfoy, if I didn’t grow up the way I did, if I didn’t know what I know…who knows, Harry, who knows." He smiled grimly. "I know that’s disappointing, believe me."

Harry stood there stunned. "I had thought…since you didn’t get the Mark…"

"I can’t make any promises, Harry."

As Draco watched him, startled, he saw Harry get angry. More angry than Draco had ever seen him. His eyes sparkled and his fingers curled around his palms. "You want to go kiss the hem of some self-styled Lord of Evil? Is that what you want? Is that what all that ambition gets you? Fine. Fine, Draco, go ahead." Draco paled, horrified, shamed, and angry all at once. Harry’s face grew more and more red and his voice, while quiet, vibrated with emotion. "Enjoy yourself. And when you get bored of scrapping your knees on the floor behind some half-dead, cursed old man with a penchant for murder and mayhem in the hopes that he might pat you on the head and give you the honour of wiping his ass for him, you know where to find me. I’ll be waiting for you. Because I know you’re smarter than that. And I’ll never stop waiting for you, because you’re better than that. And if I’m the only know who knows it, than so be it." Harry gave Draco a hard, pained look, and walked off to class.

The feast after their graduation had been sumptuous. Hogwarts meals were always feasts, as if every day were a celebration of a kind. But graduation had been a very special event; there was something especially magical in the air that night, as if Dumbledore had enchanted the hall so that the primary emotion of all the students would be joy. Draco had never felt better. His grades had been stellar, Slytherin had tied Gryffindor for the house cup, and for once, his father, who, contrary to popular belief, was not missing, had nothing to scold him about. Mcgonagall had even sent an owl his parents, noting Draco’s marked improvement in transfiguration that year.

After the feast, while everyone milled around chatting pleasantly and the house elves passed around glasses of a now alcoholic punch and pumpkin juice, Draco had had a little fun. What was well-known among the Slytherins, but little known outside their common room, was that Draco was a comedian. With a small crowd of Slytherins watching him, he began by imitating Snape, complete with a head of transfigured dirty-looking black hair, a levitating impression of a mournful Professor Trelawney, and then proceeded into a perfect-pitch ‘Mr. Malfoy, will you PLEASE turn Mr. Goyle back into a raccoon?’ MacGonagall impression. He had his audience nearly in tears. But what really attracted the attention of the room, especially the Gryffindors, came next. He staged a mock Quidditch game over the upturned faces of the students. With Seamus and Dean catching on and quickly taking up control of the opposing team, the shortbread players marked with purple or yellow icing flew on licorice sticks, zipping among the students and around the pillars in the great room. Seamus added snap and pop sound effects when the little men smacked chocolate bludgers, which went skidding into the growing crowd. When Draco noted that he had Harry’s attention, he even added a small, lightning-shaped scar to his seeker, and sent him whizzing dashingly around Harry’s head. The Gryffindors cheered appreciatively. Harry laughed.

"But Malfoy," he shouted. "He flies more like you than he does like me!"

"Ah, does he now?" Draco said. "Hmm….well. How about this?"

As the crowd roared, the little shortbread Harry, after a shockingly graceful, triple-roll, upside down, gymnastic dive around the hall, flipped himself over, flew his licorice broom with the top of his head, punched both bludgers off at once, and at the same time caught the peppermint snitch—between his little shortbread knees. All four houses howled with laughter and cheered madly.

Draco smiled and shook his head. He turned, and saw Harry was grinning at him. Draco looked at him, and closed his eyes, hoping to fix that image there.

4 

"Are you ready, Young Malfoy?" He stood beside his father, before the Dark Lord. It was a mere two months after his graduation party at Hogwarts. After the great success of his Quidditch game, he had felt oddly pensive, and had snuck out to bed without speaking to anyone. Well, that had been the idea, at least; when Crabbe and Goyle came up to sleep, half-drunk, they giggled so much like schoolgirls that Draco had been forced to poke his head out of the green velvet curtains around his bed and demand that they take their silly, drunken arses to bed. The next morning, when all the other students were crowding around the Hogwarts Express, his father hauled him quickly and quietly off the platform, frowning severely, and grabbed a portkey home. He didn’t trust his son any farther than he could throw him, which was an increasingly short distance now that Draco was nearly fully-grown. Now Draco found himself standing here, in the middle of the night, dead centre of a forest half way up the coast from nowhere, pledging his allegiance to Lord Voldemort.

"I am," he said firmly, not looking at his father but sensing his relief, as the Dark Mark was pressed into his arm. He watched as Crabbe and Goyle got theirs, along with a handful of other former Slytherins, as well as a larger group young men he didn’t recognize. He was tired; his father had prodded him awake at in the black of night in order to apparate to this gathering, not trusting him enough not to disappear this time, he hadn’t even told Draco that a ceremony was planned. The Dark Mark had been sent up into the sky again tonight, and Draco took a deep breath. After seven years with Muggle-lovers and Mudbloods, now he was finally among his own kind, he told himself. This was as it should be. Enough with boyhood dalliances. This was where his destiny lay, this was where true power resided; among those who didn’t fear it, who didn’t restrict it and coddle those who could never wield it.

The ceremony itself compete, the entire complement kneeled before Lord Voldemort. It was a mighty crowd, greater than even he would have thought. The way that Dumbledore and the other Muggle-lovers spoke, it was as though the Death Eaters were a ragtag bunch of six or seven men. Looking around him, he saw perhaps seventy or eighty men, and a dozen or so new members like himself. Why did I wait so long to do this? He wondered. Yes, this was the seat of power. Wizarding folk were already a minority in Britain; the Muggles were numerous and stupid, and yet they ruled, their whims and desires always came first. Wizarding schools and homes and even the Ministry had to be secreted away in damp and dusty passages and alleyways. Where was the pride in that? Here they were, the most powerful men in the country, and they were meeting in secret, hiding from Muggles and Muggle-lovers alike. And wizards had taken to censoring themselves, letting powerful knowledge disappear by classifying it ‘restricted’ or placing it under the heading of ‘dark arts’, untouchable by ‘decent’ folk. All these goody goodies were too afraid to meddle with real power, real magic, dangerous, uncertain stuff, that they weakened themselves and placed wizarding futures at risk, preferring to play with useless divination tricks and flobberworms. Draco furrowed his brow, breathed deeply, brushed his hand against his new mark. He had had this conversation with himself a million times. The straw man he argued against these days always had Harry’s face. He pictured him, hands balled up, face flushing, like that day in the corridor outside Potions class, and formulated his argument against him. Even Harry, especially Harry, would have to agree that the Muggles were not good for the future of wizarding folk. Look at what they had done to him, after all. Did he wish that on anyone else? A pureblood wizard, raised with hateful, slow, fat, and stupid Muggles?

Draco was trying his best to feel confident in this familiar train of thought, but he was finding himself distracted. He was vaguely disappointed. As he glanced on either side of him, he saw trembling men whispering to themselves, so filled with fear that it was palpable. He found himself feeling rather scornful of them; even the dull, stupid Hufflepuffs at Hogwarts hadn’t bent and scraped like this. This was not the way he had pictured it. He wanted to feel a surge of power, surrounded by dark wizards preparing to overthrow the Muggle-lovers, those who would taint the blood of the wizarding folk with the mud of Muggle slush. But presently he saw nothing but pathetic fear and trembling.

When you get bored of scrapping your knees on the floor behind some half-dead, cursed old man with a penchant for murder and mayhem in the hopes that he might pat you on the head and give you the honour of wiping his ass for him, you know where to find me. Draco remembered those words; they were etched into his brain. No, he thought. He’s wrong.

"You," Voldemort hissed. Draco was suddenly aware that Voldemort had been speaking to the crowd, and he hadn’t been paying any attention. Now he realized that that hissed you was directed at him. He felt Voldemort looking at him sharply. "Young Malfoy. You knew the Potter boy, didn’t you?"

Draco looked up. "I did, Lord Voldemort." Voldemort smiled hauntedly at him. Admittedly, Draco didn’t actually know Harry very well. He knew he wasn’t really that much use as an informant; all Draco knew, really, was that Harry had defeated Voldemort before, that he had a pretty good right hook, and that he was a hell of a kisser. But that last bit could probably be left out of his official report. He had assumed that Voldemort would ask him what he knew, along with Crabbe and Goyle and a few others, and he was also painfully aware that there were flagstones at Hogwarts more eloquent than most of them, and so he had prepared a brief list of things to divulge. Mostly important on the list, of course, was that Harry was carefully watched and immensely well protected.

"Good, good…"Voldemort stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Come here boy." Draco rose and walked toward Voldemort, head high. "I want to see…."

With a blinding flash, Draco was thrown to the ground panting. He had a mouthful of blood. He crouched on the ground as Voldemort hauled him up by his hair. "Now," he hissed into his ear. "Your mind belongs to me." He slapped a slimy, cold substance against Draco’s temple and pressed his fingers into it.

Suddenly Draco felt something odd. He was kneeling in the mud, his body propped up by his hair, his lips were ragged, his tongue was swelling, but in spite of all that he felt something else, a sensation that overwhelmed the rest. He realized in an instant that all his life he had been profoundly alone within the confines of his own skull. Now, suddenly, Voldemort was there with him. He flicked about his mind like a snake, dripping venom and burning holes in Draco’s consciousness, a venom that felt as though it dripped down his spine and short-circuited his legs, which jolted slightly with each move Voldemort made in his mind. Draco panted, he drooled blood, his eyes were rolling back into his head.

Hmm, Malfoy. You’re an arrogant little snip, aren’t you. Draco felt more than heard Voldemort’s thoughts. Each syllable was painful, tearing holes in his brain, making his fingers jump brokenly. Draco didn’t dare wince. Voldemort sorted through his memories like flipping through a book, stopping and examining pages of moments, dreams, homework he had struggled over, stinging insults he had hurled, nights he had cried himself to sleep. He even sorted through his early morning sticky fantasies, the quiet thoughts that lulled him to sleep. Draco knew not to resist, but he was beyond embarrassed, beyond humiliated. Please. He whimpered, without moving a muscle. Voldemort sorted through his romp with Harry, lingering particularly on the sensation of Harry’s tongue in Draco’s navel.

Voldemort laughed. "Malfoy!" He turned and shouted, looking over at Draco’s father. Do you know that your son is a queer?" These words bashed up against Draco’s skull like a hammer. He drooled bile.

He was hardly conscious, but he was coldly aware of this exchange. He couldn’t see his father, he heard nothing at all, but he knew what must have been happening. He wished he could pass out. Voldemort was laughing.

"What is your trouble, Malfoy? Have you got some kind of medieval problem with men fucking each other? Power is seductive, Lucius. Potter, boy that he is, is powerful in his own way, yes indeed. Powerful in ways that Muggle-addled Dumbledore can’t even imagine. Your boy lusts after power and those that wield it; no surprise that he zeroed in on Potter. Why does this surprise you?" Voldemort sorted through a series of Draco’s memories. Harry at potions shooting him looks of sheer, unadulterated hated; Harry looking down on him with concern in the hospital wing after an accident on the Quidditch pitch; their angry exchange in front of potions class, and that wonderful smile he had flashed at Draco, just two months before, at graduation. Harry with hands on his chest, his hot breath on Draco’s face. "Yes…" Voldemort was saying. Young Malfoy, you’ve given me a brilliant idea. He let go of Draco’s hair, and he slumped to the ground, unable to move.

"It appears that the Potter boy wasn’t immune to his pretty boy charms, either. This will be very, very useful indeed." Draco felt fire in his brain, he felt fingers of Voldemort’s mind receding slowly, and pain burning through his body, which twitched and jolted like a headless chicken. For once, he had never felt so comforted and so horrified at being left alone. He shivered and passed out.

5 

Six months after graduation, Harry was sitting in his office in the Ministry of Magic. He still couldn’t quite believe that he was here. He and Ron, and a group of former Hufflepuffs and a Ravenclaw from their year, had been put on a team created to watch Death Eater movements. Ever since the Ministry had really buckled down and admitted that Voldemort was indeed back in full force, that something had to be done about it, the wizarding world had breathed a collective sigh of relief. Rather than long lists of rumours, disappearances, violent explosions, and the names of dead Muggles and Muggle-borns filling the pages of The Daily Prophet, they reported on averted disasters, victories, captures, and advice from the Ministry on tweaking spells for protection (‘Don’t just use an average locking spell on your doors at night: add the word ‘magnus’ to the spell and sprinkle fortified salt on the threshold,’). They had established a prominent think tank committee to develop new spells, something that hadn’t been heard of in anyone’s living memory. These would turn up in a special section in The Daily Prophet, and many of them were being taught even to first years at Hogwarts, who were then instructed to teach them to their families at holidays. Conferences were being held at regular intervals at Hogwarts and elsewhere, where experts of every variety discussed spell possibilities, charms, potions, and other forms of preparation. The wizarding world was waking from a long slumber and finding itself to be much stronger than it had imaged it was.

Harry found himself right in the middle of it all. He had learned a great deal more magic in the last two months than he had learned in his entire final year at Hogwarts; how to be stealthy, how to stop, trap, immobilize, confuse, disarm, transport wizards; how to cancel their spells, how to transform their memories, replace their knowledge; how make the visible invisible, and vice versa. It was hard, but very satisfying work, as a week rarely went by when a new Death Eater movement wasn’t stifled. The team itself was close-knit; Harry and Ron were sharing a comfortable flat in London, which was often peopled with various Ministry friends. They debated late into the night about the next movements of the Death Eaters, testing out safety spells, praising each other’s efforts, arguing about possible action. Harry hadn’t seen the Dursleys since last summer, and he didn’t miss them in the slightest.

He had said nothing to Ron about Draco. What could he say? The question never really came up. Boys, girls, love; neither of them were in a mindset to date after work, the war was too important. But secretly ideas about Draco preyed on his mind. He wasn’t concerned so much about the fact that he was attracted to Draco, the fact that when he slept, when he wasn’t dreaming about Death Eaters, he was dreaming about soft kisses on his neck. He was worried about Draco’s profession, his future. Was he a Death Eater? Had he gotten his Mark? Harry watched all the news he could get his hands on, both classified and public; he saw the reports on the Death Eater membership, the sightings, rumours, the lists of the participants in hits. He knew about Crabbe and Goyle; he even knew about Blaise and Pansy Parkinson. He knew that the senior Malfoy, and his wife, had been seen in connection to some other highly placed Death Eaters, not that Harry was surprised by this. But there hadn’t been a single report about Draco, not even the vaguest rumour. No one had seen him, not even the Death Eaters they had captured, and Harry had managed to get close enough to ask. No one had seen Draco in any context; one of the Ministry spies had even been at Malfoy Manor last month for an elegant dinner party, and even there, while there was much talk about violence and more strikes, Draco had not been discussed or seen. Harry imagined how it would have gone had he transfigured himself and visited that posh event.

Well, Lucius, where is that sharp son of yours? He would have asked.

Draco? That disappointing sod, he ran off. Wouldn’t take the Mark, the coward, he headed for the hills. Good riddance to him. He was comforted by the thought that Draco might be out there somewhere, perhaps hiding in some Muggle cottage, hating every minute of it, until the balance of power was more obviously in favour of the Ministry, when he would walk into this office in some degree of safety, enigmatic smile on his face, and say, Harry, I couldn’t keep you waiting. And how Harry would greet him. How they would work together. Sometimes, late at night, Harry felt as though this war was really about Draco’s loyalties only, as if his choice alone would determine their brilliant success or their bitter failure.

Draco had been only semi-conscious for weeks. Death Eaters of all descriptions had been back and forth from Malfoy manor, meeting, discussing, hauling old, strange, and musty books with them. Strange, pungent fumes rose from downstairs in the dungeons, while the Death Eaters tested, threw things into fires burned on various kinds of wood, boiled cauldrons, cast spells using words in languages that often didn’t even sound human. Day after day Draco was treated to cups of thick, sluggish liquids, liquids that were so light they evaporated on his tongue, powers sprinkled on his lips, his hands, his feet, balms rubbed into his body; there were spells that made his skin itch from the inside, that turned his eyes, his tongue, his genitals, his hair, his skin different colours, added textures, made him rip and bleed. He hadn’t been able to eat for longer than he could remember, and his skin was taking on a sickly greenish colour. His body was being prepared, the way you would prepare a portkey or broomstick or a charm. Draco himself wasn’t even sure he understood the entire plan yet, and neither did the potion masters and spell casters who kept him company. They were combining and testing potions Draco hadn’t even heard of; elements of the Dark Arts that even Lucius had not been even vaguely familiar with. What he knew for sure was that his body was the delivery mechanism, and he tried not to dwell much on this fact.

There were countless needles and shunts in his arms, hips, thighs, testing his blood, his flesh. He ate enchanted foods that made him throw up, that made him ravenously hungry, that made his muscles expand or shrink, made his fingernails grow, made his heart stop, and then start up again, painfully. Some that made him see vague images of the future that he couldn’t quite make out; some that made him see the past, to see through walls. Some made him feel like various animals (cats, rabbits, dragons, snakes, and other, darker things he didn’t even know the names of), and some made him delusional. Though, truth be told, Draco was often delusional anyway. Even half-asleep, half-drugged, he knew when Voldemort entered the room, which was fairly often. He felt a sticky substance on his forehead; he felt that familiar venom dripping down his vertebrae.

It’s a good thing you’re not a weakling, Malfoy. Voldemort examined Draco’s resolve, his reactions to the latest potions and spells. He saw his disappointment, he heard Harry’s words running circles around his brain, When you get bored of scrapping your knees on the floor behind some half-dead, cursed old man with a penchant for murder and mayhem…he felt Draco’s uncertainty, his flagging resolve. Even semi-conscious, Draco feared the Dark Lord’s response to this, but he knew he didn’t have the power to conceal anything from him.

Draco, my boy. Voldemort’s words were softer now, almost tender, they caressed him instead of ripping holes behind his eyes. He’s right. That would be boring. Very boring. It’s boring to be surrounded by people who can’t see the importance of your work. It’s tedious to prove yourself worthy of their trust in your abilities. But you know the truth. The wizarding world is castrating itself with Muggles, hiding its power from itself. You don’t know it, but you sense it; Potter has a kind of power that Dumbledore won’t let him use. You have skills that no one ever taught you about at Hogwarts! Did you know how Harry was abused by those Muggles he lived with? Did you know that even as a squalling infant, he could have done away with them, he could have protected himself, but because of Dumbledore and his Muggle-loving kind he was treated like a crippled house elf? And not only that, he was forced to believe that he was as worthless as a crippled house elf? It’s shocking, it’s horrible. We can save him, Draco. We can give him things he doesn’t even know he wants. Ah, you have experience in that realm, no?

Draco cringed. But he’s a Gryffindor. You killed his parents, he’ll never forget. And…I’m about to betray him. Draco had worked hard not to think about this in the half-light of the world he had been living in during the last weeks. Ah, betrayal and redemption are very closely linked, like hatred and love, which you know well. You know that his friends will never accept you in his life, don’t you? You know the Muggles he lives with would rather throw him out into the dirty, ugly Muggle streets rather than accept any relationship he might have with you. Is that not betrayal? Do you think that the Death Eaters have a monopoly on betrayal? No. Harry is constantly being betrayed; you will bring him options. We need to show him what he could be. You know he is good and kind and benevolent; why can’t he be powerful too, as you will be? Would you rather have fools like, He shifted through Draco’s memory again, finding an example, Neville Longbottom ruling the wizarding world? Those are the types of folk they glorify. They love weaklings, Draco, because weaklings aren’t frightening to the Muggles. Weaklings don’t want to change the status quo. They don’t understand that the powerful aren’t always evil. They don’t see that sometimes ugly things turn out to be beautiful in the end. Do you think they’re all good, Dumbledore and his crew? The Ministry of Magic? They’re the ones locking those who disagree with them up in Azkaban, they steal their souls, Draco. They drive them mad. They can’t handle dissention. No group of people in history—not Muggle or wizard history—has ever battled such discrimination without violence. It’s a means to an end. And we’re not afraid of it. Voldemort was convincing. Draco felt his doubts lulled. Yes, it was a fight against injustice. It was a fight of desperation. It was a fight to keep the wizarding world alive, and not diluted and dispersed. And Harry could understand it, he could, he would understand, and be grateful to Draco for showing him that he could be just as he wanted to be, that Harry could be himself, without all these restrictions. I won’t wait for you, Harry. I will come and save you.

Voldemort came back often, crooned to Draco, convincing him, soothing his doubting mind. Draco was no longer sure when he was awake, and when he was asleep, and eventually he wasn’t sure if he was talking to Voldemort or Harry in his head.

6  

Harry peered into the mirror, adjusting his tie. No matter how carefully he tidied up his hair, it still had a wild look to it. He wore deep blue robes now, rather than school black. He found himself increasingly disliking black these days. It reminded him of evil work, stealth, dangerous nights and secrets. It reminded him of Death Eaters.

It had been a tremendous victory. The Death Eaters had planned a massive raid on Bishop’s Stortford, a primarily muggle area. Clearly they were aiming to make a point, but Ministry intelligence had tipped them off, and a large army of Ministry witches and wizards, along with a special muggle military unit established by the British government to aid the Ministry, were there to pre-empt them. They caught twenty-seven Death Eaters, fourteen of them powerful, prominent wizards, who were now safely contained in various secret locations around the country. Hermione, who worked in Muggle relations, radiated glee. The greatest victory the Ministry had seen to date had been accomplished in co-operation with the muggle government, and with a large group of intelligent, brave, and kind muggles who were neither scornful nor afraid of their wizarding counterparts. Harry and Ron’s apartment, which had been a gathering spot for all kinds of young, earnest, and interesting wizarding folk over the year, had now begun to see more and more muggle faces, and certainly more muggle beverages. Ron had balked a bit at the concept of muggle beer, but had developed a liking for it.

Harry had finally got a bit of news he had been searching for. There was a vague rumour, piggybacked with other information, that Draco had long been absent from Malfoy manor, that Lucius Malfoy had given up on bringing his son to Voldemort. There were no serious details, but there had been some hints about Lucius discovering inclinations in Draco that were suspect, and some shame and disgrace that had or would have fallen on his family because of it. It was said that Lucius simply didn’t acknowledge his son any longer. Harry wondered. Why has he not come to me? Is he too proud? Harry wasn’t sure whether to believe the rumour or not; it hadn’t come from the most secure of sources. But it was the first scrap of news he had heard, and he clung to it. He had considered sending an owl; he had even written the letter. Draco, I’m still waiting. Harry. But he hadn’t sent it.

With this great victory under their belt, Dumbledore had announced that a bit of celebrating was in order; he sent out invitations far and wide to a feast at Hogwarts, where they would toast to their victories and their alliances.

"Are you ready?" Ron wore green robes, which complimented his red hair. "I don’t think that tie is going to get any straighter." He saw a pensive look on Harry’s face. He slapped him on the back. "Buck up, chum! We’re winning now, can’t you feel it? Let’s have a good time tonight, shall we?"

Harry smiled widely at him. "You’re right, of course." He ran his fingers through his hair, watching it completely return to its standard disheveled look. "Do me a favour?" He asked. Ron looked at him quizzically in the mirror. "Don’t let me talk business?"

Ron laughed. "You got it." They apparated to Hogsmede, meeting a group of muggle friends who had just gotten off the train, and they walked the short distance up the familiar hill to Hogwarts, laughing and talking as if all was well with the world.

Nearly everyone was there. Prominent members of the Ministry, some of the greatest wizarding minds and new, innovative spell inventors, the front line wizards and witches; even a handful muggle allies, ministers, and academics were there. Everyone was all smiles, but Harry felt a tug on his heart. Don’t think about it. Harry told himself. Enjoy yourself.

Dumbledore spotted Harry entering the great hall, and moved over to see him. "Harry!" He said warmly, while Ron explained the enchanted ceiling and the house banners to their muggle friends. "There are people here who would enjoy meeting you." It had been some time since Harry had felt like a celebrity; at the Ministry, he was just a worker, highly-skilled and valued, just like Ron and the rest of his team. But here he was reminded that he had once been The Boy Who Lived, and his scar, the mark that he had survived Adava Kadavera, was of keen interest to these learned men and women. Many were members of the think tanks, experts in curses and potions and charms and even divination. They were all most excited to see him.

"Here is Dr. Hemsley, Harry." Dumbledore said, directing him toward a small and rather knobby-looking goblin. "He’s been working on protection charms and such. Look at this, isn’t it pretty?" He handed Harry a small circular piece of polished amethyst, with a perfect circle cut out of the centre. Inside the circle was a tiny, clear stone, perhaps a diamond, or simply a bit of quartz made to look like a diamond, floating unsupported, rotating, turning, and bobbing about. He felt a small burst of energy, like an electric shock, travel through him when he touched it.

"Why, yes it is…but what does it do?" Harry looked down at Dr. Hemsley. A goblin, making charms? Were the goblins exploiting people’s fear of the war in order to make extraordinary profits? Harry didn’t doubt it. He could think of a fair number of people who would buy any charm that hit the pages of The Daily Prophet if they thought it had even a hope of giving them any extra boost at all.

"Oh, Mr. Potter, it’s actually quite interesting, it– oh, excuse me…" A large man with a dark face and a voluminous beard shoved the goblin out of the way to grab Harry’s hand. "Wonderful to meet you, Mr. Potter, wonderful, wonderful…I was hoping to have a word with you about your Patronius…" Harry pocketed the charm, smiled at the rush of dignitaries surrounding him, answering as many questions as he could.

He shook many hands, and smiled graciously, allowing them to peer at his scar. One of them even asked to touch it, which Harry graciously allowed. Throughout this skirmish, Harry felt increasingly troubled. In spite of all the joy and laughter around him, even the dedicated enthusiasm and confidence of the magical experts made him feel a deep-seated dread. Their first major victory had been too easy, too pat. He almost felt that this celebratory event was rash, if not downright dangerous. What if Voldemort had learned how to break through Hogwarts famous walls of spells? What if he managed to destroy all these great warriors and wizards, right here, tonight? Their Death Eater hostages would be a minor total indeed in comparison. Harry sighed, shoving such thoughts out of his mind. Underneath all those logical, rational concerns, however, lay his desperate quest for Draco, tugging at him like an anchor. Why has he not come to me? What choices has he made?

After a dozen or so introductions, along with several proddings and cursory examinations (including a magical bubble one of the doctors cast over him, that listed his vital stats and monitored the beating of his heart and his brainwave activity, which, even the other wizards around agreed was a bit much for a party), Harry noticed that Dumbledore was giving him a peculiar look.

"Are you alright, Harry?" He asked quietly.

He smiled at his former headmaster. "Yes, sir. I’m fine. I…" he hesitated. "I know we’re doing well in this war, sir, and all the signs are good, but I find myself…uneasy, even here, now."

The headmaster nodded. "Yes, Harry, I understand. You are quite perceptive." He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "But you know that we are quite safe here, for the most part. Nothing passes through here that I am unaware of. We have been shifting and changing with the times, and these have been turbulent times." Dumbledore looked at Harry curiously, "Now, and along with this unease, you are concerned about a particular classmate, yes?" Harry shivered. Dumbledore had an uncanny knack for knowing the most unknowable things.

Harry nodded, resignedly. "It’s Draco Malfoy, sir. I haven’t been able to get any solid news about him. It’s as if he’s just disappeared. I told him…well, sir, I told him before graduation….that he should come to me if he didn’t join the Death Eaters. But he hasn’t been seen with them, and I have had no word from him." He sighed. "I feel as if…well, as if his choices are…somehow very important, sir, if you get my meaning." Harry wasn’t sure he understood exactly what he meant himself.

The headmaster smiled sadly. "Yes, I believe I do understand, Harry. Indeed, everyone’s choices are very important, Mr. Malfoy’s included. And of course you’ve wondered about him. Well, we’ve all wondered, haven’t we, after his uncertainty last year." He leaned closer to Harry, and said softly, "It’s never really clear until the end, is it, which choices people have made?" Dumbledore took Harry’s arm, and lead him to the edge of the crowd. "Harry, I once told you that love leaves a mark, and I was not wrong. But love does not always lead us down paths that are just, or right, or wise, or even ones that make us happy. Sometimes love simply motivates us, but doesn’t give us any clear direction for that motivation. But it doesn’t mean that love is any less real, any less genuine, or that it leaves any less worthy a mark on us." Harry blushed, looking down at his shoes.

Dumbledore put his arm around Harry, and whispered, "But if you want to know about his choices, you can ask him yourself." Dumbledore pointed through the crowd, where the Slytherin table usually stood. And, shockingly, there he was, leaning against the wall, looking vaguely bored. Draco Malfoy, standing there, just outside the crowd of celebrants, as if this were the most natural and normal thing in the world for him to be doing. "Go on," Dumbledore whispered. Harry blinked at Dumbledore, his eyes wide. Dumbledore smiled.

He ambled over toward Draco, picking up two glasses of pumpkin juice along the way to give him something to do with his hands. His stomach fluttered; he was nervous. His last encounter with Draco had been bittersweet; he had been angry in their last conversation. How should he address him now? Draco was eyeing the crowd languidly, his eyes half-closed. He wore a heavy, gray woolen cloak with silver clasps, and a notable absence of insignia. There against the wall, alone, he looked like a angel, with a blonde halo. He leaned forward, rubbing his temple, looking momentarily tired, and then saw Harry approaching him. He smiled, running his fingers through his hair expectantly.

"Good evening, Harry." He said softly. Harry felt almost overwhelmed, confronting those gray eyes again. Draco looked stunning. It came as no surprise that he was well put-together, of course; Draco had always been careful with his hair and clothing. But tonight his clear, smooth, pale skin seemed visibly soft and healthy rather than sallow and pallid. Harry even saw a bit of pink flush in his cheeks. His soft blonde hair fell perfectly behind his ears, cut smartly and tidily along the back of his neck. He seemed both taller and broader in the shoulders than Harry had remembered. His eyes, looking directly into Harry’s, were clean and bright and uncomplicated by the kinds of emotions Harry had last seen in them.

"Let me help you with those," he said, taking the glasses of juice form Harry’s hands and turning to place them on the window sill beside him. He faced Harry again, extending a slim hand, and Harry noted the even, well-groomed fingernails as he took it. Draco felt warm, strong, soft, and real, which almost surprised Harry. He had half-expected Draco to be a ghost, an apparition, an astral projection. Draco traced his fingertips delicately along Harry’s wrist and smiled, showing, for a moment, his even, gleaming teeth.

Harry almost felt faint. "You’re looking well, Draco." He paused, his entire body tingling from the sensation of those fingertips on that tender flesh. "Where have…" Harry stumbled.

"Where have I been?" Draco sighed. "Well. It’s a long, convoluted story that’s certainly not something anyone at a feast like this would want to hear the details of. But, suffice it to say that I’ve been about, and now, I’m here. With you." He was still holding Harry’s hand, still tracing patterns on his skin, looking intently at him.

"I’ve been wonderi–"

"Malfoy!" Ron appeared next to Harry, his eyes wide and angry. "What are you doing here?" He snapped, peering suspiciously at Draco. Harry pulled his hand out of Draco’s, who released it reluctantly.

"Lovely to see you too, Weasley." Draco drawled, sounding annoyed. "I understand that you’re contributing to your family economy these days."

Harry sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the last year on his bones. "Come on now, Ron, Draco, we’re having a celebration here. Let’s not fall into old habits? Ron, You know Draco’s not been involved in anything." He said quietly. Ron scowled, looked sharply at Harry, and then grabbed Draco’s arm.

"Let’s have a look then," he said. Harry saw his arms shoot out to grab Draco, and he spluttered a quick, "Ron! No!" But Ron was too quick, and Draco seemed to have no objections. Ron hauled up Draco’s right sleeve, exposing clean, untouched, flawless flesh. Draco grinned playfully at Harry, ignoring Ron and his examinations.

"Weasley doesn’t seem to trust Dumbledore’s spellcasting to keep stray Death Eaters out, I see." Ron did look a little surprised. He grabbed Draco’s other arm, which he allowed with a vaguely amused look. He pushed back the other sleeve, exposing another pale, immaculate arm. Ron humphed, letting go of Malfoy.

"Satisfied?" Draco asked, brightly. "Or would you like to have another go? Perhaps they’re putting the Dark Mark on people’s backsides now. Shall I strip?"

Ron shot Draco a sour look. "It’s hardly funny, Malfoy. You of all people should know how serious this is." He sighed, noting a look of horror on Harry’s face. "I had to check, Harry, I’m sorry, alright?" He frowned. "What do you want to talk to him for, anyway? I thought we were here to have a good time."

"We have some…unfinished business, Ron."

"No business tonight, Harry. Remember? Party? Celebration? Fun? Ring any bells?"

"Perhaps you could go find fun by yourself like the big boy that you are, Weasley, and let your friend and me finish our conversation?" Malfoy spouted impatiently.

Ron eyed Draco coldly. "Since when do you and Harry have convers–" Harry grabbed Ron’s arm.

"Ron? Please?"

Ron looked aghast at Harry, but shook his head. "I’m going to get more cake." He said stiffly, and walked off toward a groaning table filled with deserts, giving Harry a ‘watch yourself, will you?’ look.

Draco laughed. "The trusting Gryffindors, suddenly so suspicious."

"Well, war will do that to you. We’ve had a tough year, after all." Harry noted, as Draco handed him his drink. He nodded his thanks, and sipped at it.

Draco nodded solemnly. "Yes, it has been rather difficult, hasn’t it. I see that you’ve been very busy. Twenty-six, twenty-seven captured? Quite a coup. I understand you’ve been working with some of those muggles." He sipped his drink, and waved his glass toward a small crowd of young men who were talking with Hermione, and had just burst into a loud fit of laughter. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had seen Harry walk in with them, and was more than a little jealous. But he had managed to keep as much scorn out of the word muggles as possible.

"Yes, that’s right." Harry propped himself up against the wall next to Draco, leaning toward him, pointing a few of them out with a wave of his hand and naming them.

"They’re part of a special muggle military unit linked to the Ministry. They’re nice lads, Ron and I have been spending a fair bit of time with them." Harry caught himself looking rather hungrily at the nape of Draco’s neck, and at the same time waiting for a smart comment about his working with muggles.

"They’re…attractive, do you fancy any of them?" Draco asked, nonchalantly.

Harry blinked. "Uh….well, no, it’s not like that." He felt himself blushing. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for this conversation. A Malfoy commenting on attractive muggles? He took a long drink from his juice, finishing it off. He sighed. He had seen the evidence for himself. Malfoy did not appear to be a Death Eater. Past all the charms and spells cast over Hogwarts, Draco was here, unharmed, not a hair of his head out of place. He had made his choice, and here he was. With him.

Draco moved closer to him, and slid an arm around his waist beneath his robes, brushing his lips against Harry’s ear, he said, "I’ve missed you." Harry shut his eyes. "I remember what you said. You were right." Draco teased Harry’s earlobe with his lips. "I didn’t join my father. It’s you I want, I’m sorry it look me so long…" Harry was surprised, and felt his eyes starting to prickle with the threat of tears. It’s as though he’s reading my mind, Harry thought, and, more cynically, It’s as though he’s telling me exactly what I want to hear. Harry squelched the cynical voice. Draco took his hand. "You look a little flushed, Harry. Let’s get out of here, shall we? A walk in the garden, perhaps?" Harry nodded. He was feeling inordinately warm all of a sudden.

Dumbledore watched the boys leaving the great hall, hand in hand. He shook his head sadly. Professor McGonagall, standing next to him, sighed deeply. "So it’s begun." She said simply.

Dumbledore nodded. "Good luck, Harry." He said softly.

7 

Are you still breathing?

- Glass Vase Cello Case, Tattle Tale

Draco held Harry’s hand carefully as they walked out of the school and toward the herbology garden. His heart was racing. He had been wanting to touch Harry for so long the thought of it made him groan. There had never been any question in his mind, of course, that he would have given anything to be back under that invisibility cloak a year ago, fumbling with buttons and listening for footsteps in the dark. And now here he was, Harry’s hand in his, and all he had to do was perform his part, which was no false performance at all. And if he performed it well, he would get to keep Harry Potter forever. And they would live in powerful bliss. It was a dream come true.

But everything else about this encounter was a complete and utter lie. Draco wasn’t new to lying, of course. He had spent most of his life lying, but never quite as much, or quite as significantly as he was now.

Before he had entered the great hall at Hogwarts, he had been prepared for this event, of course, in every possible way. He had spent the better part of a year lying half-dead in the upper reaches of Malfoy manor, and naturally looked a right mess. In reality, his hair had lost all its shine, his eyes were dull, bloodshot, and purplish bags were bulging underneath them. His skin was sickly sallow and nearly translucent. His lips were cracked and torn from bouts with Voldemort, and his voice was next to ruined from all the acids and potions he’d been drinking, all the blood and bile and phlegm he’d been coughing up. He had healed and half-healed shunt marks all over this body, that looked like small, cracked volcanoes of flesh erupting up and down his arms, torso, and legs. And of course, he had the Dark Mark on his arm, the ugly, nasty thing that it was, protruding a little, grayish-green. He felt like Cinderella, waiting for the clock to clang out midnight; his current radiant, flawless appearance had a time limit, as did the spells that allowed him on Hogwarts property without detection. How could he possibly have enacted the seduction of Harry Potter looking like something an owl had dragged in from a barnyard? His father had made him beautiful again, but he felt like a fraud. But there was no room for that; Draco had to be seductive, he had to be lovely, charming, perfect.

"Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?" Harry asked. He was feeling slightly dizzy now, and still over-warm, even though the cool night air was brushing his face. Draco squeezed his hand, feeling him squeeze right back.

"Well…" Draco answered. "I’d rather not. For the moment. Let’s just say that I wasn’t staying away entirely on purpose." Why could he not come up with an elaborate, romantic lie? He had been locked in a dungeon; sent into the Canadian arctic to save starving seals; he had become an Unspeakable; he had been locked up in St. Mungo’s; he had taken a vow; he had been cursed mute and immobile by the wicked witch of the west; something, anything! He knew that something sad and heroic was what Harry wanted to hear. Somehow a voice in him was preventing him escalating this charade any farther than was strictly necessary. Don’t tell him any more lies. There was something hollow in this, and Draco was pretending he didn’t notice. He stroked Harry’s hand with his thumb. Sometimes ugly things turn out to be beautiful in the end. Harry had said that to him, hadn’t he? Or was it Voldemort?

Harry sighed. Enigmatic answers from a profoundly enigmatic man. They walked in the garden, between rows of sage plants and nightshade. He felt oddly lightheaded. His face was still flushed, and he was hyper aware of his skin, rubbing softly against his robes, caressed gently in Draco’s hand. Those hands! How he had dreamed of them, their profound gentleness, fingers tracing words on his skin that made his heart break. The noises of the party inside disappeared; all he could hear was the sound of his heart beating, and Draco’s quiet breathing.

Draco He was leading Harry toward a low grassy area between the Quidditch pitch and the garden, where there was a wide wooden bench, patting the small (now empty) vial in his pocket which he had emptied minutes ago into Harry’s pumpkin juice. Those few drops of tasteless liquid gave Draco the advantage of knowing what Harry was thinking, how he felt. Draco had been worried that Harry might have forgotten about him, might have found someone just as interesting, just as attractive, someone who kissed just as well. Perhaps one of those muggles he dragged home with him. He wasn’t opposed to using the available tools to help him secure his prize. He gazed questioningly into those green eyes, testing to see if they longed for anyone else, anyone other than him. No one. No one but him. They sat down on the bench, looking out on the Quidditch pitch.

"I always loved watching you fly, you know." Draco noted. "It was the only time I was able to watch you without anyone being suspicious." He laid the palm of his hand against the Harry’s jaw, stroking the soft skin of his neck, and brought Harry’s hand, still folded into his own, to his face, kissing the inside of his wrist as if it might disappear from him at any moment. Harry shivered, closing his eyes. This is too perfect, he thought. Draco leaned toward him, brushing his lips against Harry’s. Without any thought at all, Harry pulled Draco into his arms and kissed him. Into that kiss he poured out an entire year of concern, of sweaty, sticky dreams, hours pouring over reports, lists of names, and quiet thoughts about those lips, that tongue, the soft hairs on the back of that neck, the feel of those muscles, knotted in concentration, along the length of his back. He kissed him with all the frustration he had felt, left waiting, hanging on tenterhooks, watching for owls every day, scanning the streets for men with soft blonde hair. He kissed him with the intensity of the disappointment he had felt every time a stranger’s face turned out not to be his, every time he didn’t hear a voice saying, Hello Harry, it’s me, Draco. I’m here, I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Draco responded with equal passion, unable to fully express the desperation of his long nights that dragged into weeks, months, waiting for this moment, dreaming of the taste of Harry’s skin, the feel of the curve of Harry’s hip bone on his lips. The urgency of that kiss was so palpable that they peeled off layers of clothing with a sense of necessity akin to breathing, with a calmness that only comes with great desire that has had to wait far too long.

Draco tasted of rich things; shortbread, cinnamon, marzipan, maraschino cherries and toffee. Harry felt as if he were in a dream with no consequences when Draco lips left his body, briefly touched his nose, and he rose from the bench. Harry opened his eyes and saw him lay his cloak on the grass. He stood and followed him. He stood for moment with Draco, his arms wrapped around his slim waist, as Draco removed what remained of his own and Harry’s clothing while whispering into his ear. You are so beautiful, Harry. In my dreams you were lovely, but in the flesh you are breathtaking .Do you have any idea how I’ve missed you? Do you have any idea how I love you? The cool night breeze against his skin felt absolutely right, as if he had been waiting for this moment, standing naked on the back grounds of Hogwarts, his entire life. Draco kept whispering in his ear, things he only ever whispered to him in his deepest dreams. I’m here now, Harry. We won’t be on opposite sides anymore. He breathed deeply as Draco pulled him down onto his cloak, looking intense, serious, and desperate all at once. Harry lay on his back, his arms full of Draco, looking up at the stars above them.

Bliss. Draco was extremely attentive. Unlike before, Draco seemed to move with no fear, no hesitation. His fingers wrote endless love letters all over his body, his lips pressed words neither of them knew how to say into his skin. Harry forgot where he was; he stroked Draco, ran his nails down Draco’s back, bathed in his moans and the feel of his lips on his stomach. With his lips, his tongue, and his hands, Draco brought Harry to a point where he was sure he would explode and rip entirely in two. He stifled a scream in his throat, his fingers buried in Draco’s hair.

Suddenly, Draco stopped his ministrations, drawing himself up toward Harry’s face. "Harry," he said, sounding afraid. "No, Harry no, not yet, no…" Too late. The friction of Draco’s body moving against him was too much. He cried out, and both felt a warm spurt of fluid against their stomachs. He clutched Draco to him, nuzzled his neck, breathing heavily. "Oh, Harry…" Draco sounded terrified. He jumped up, and backed away from him.

"Draco, what’s wrong?" Harry sat up and scratched his head.

Harry saw a spot on Draco’s stomach, at first just wet and glistening in the starlight, turn silver, and then black. Draco grabbed at it, trying to hold it back, but it grew larger and larger until it covered most of his abdomen. Draco looked up at Harry.

"Run." He said.

"What?" Harry was watching the void on Draco’s body swirl, blistering the skin around it. Suddenly he felt his scar burn and pulse with pain. He winced and grabbed it, looking at Draco with wide eyes. "What have you done?" He said quietly.

Draco’s eyes had rolled back into his head, and he was shaking. The void on his stomach was shifting, growing outward, turning a thick green. Then suddenly it left his body altogether, detaching from that abused flesh and forming a perfect circle, like a soap bubble, glistening like a drop of gasoline in water. Draco collapsed. For a moment that bubble of black and roiling green floated in the air, motionless, directly in front of Harry’s face, as if it were sizing him up. Harry’s scar was burning with pain. He clenched his teeth.

The sphere threw itself into Harry, dissolving on contact with his skin.

Draco watched in horror as Harry’s body trembled, his fists shaking, his eyes clamped tightly shut. As quickly as it started, suddenly the trembling stopped. Harry opened his eyes. They were entirely black. He smiled, a very uncharacteristic smile, looking down at his naked body, stretching his arms, and peering at them.

"Nicely done, Malfoy," he said, in a voice that was not entirely his own. "Your father will be so proud." He laughed hollowly, moving toward Draco and pulling him to his feet. With a wicked grin, he leaned in and kissed Draco, taking his lip between his teeth and biting down, hard. Draco knew better than to wince. He released Draco, reached up and fingered a drop of blood on his lip.

He turned, whispered a few words over the blood, and drew a line in the air that sparkled red. He grabbed it, and tore it open, leaving a large blank hole.

Draco watched as his father climbing out of that hole carrying a long black robe.

"Here you are, Lord Voldemort," He said, draping the cloak over Harry’s naked body. "What a great success!"

Voldemort laughed. "Yes. Dumbledore will be surprised indeed."

Draco looked down at himself, and saw that his flawless appearance was gone; he saw his Mark, his scars, and his pallid, translucent skin. His legs felt wobbly and he was suddenly very cold. He moved to the pile of clothes on the grass, pulling on his trousers, his cloak. He could hear Death Eaters arriving, greeting each other, praising Voldemort, making preparations. But louder than that in his head was a strange sound, thub, thub, thub, like something rotating slowly, but increasing in speed. He shook his head, crouching down on the grass.

Then he heard a voice in his head, strong and clear. What have you done? It was Harry.

8 

"Is he alright?" Minerva McGonagall asked, concerned. She peered into the bubble, trying to make sense of the various numbers, charts, pie graphs and flashing lights inside it.

"Yes, he’s alright." Dr. Chen manipulated the bubble, showing her a series of statistics that made no sense to her. "You see? There he is, still very strong. Quite shocking, really! Mr. Potter really is a remarkable wizard. This," he pointed, "is his heart rate, and here," he pointed again, "is his magical strength. You see how strong he is? The possession itself didn’t sap his strength in any significant way. He just doesn’t realize what’s happened yet. Voldemort can’t sense him at all, thanks to Mr. Roskowski’s brilliant spells." No nodded toward to the large man beside him with a thick black beard, who was peering confusedly into the bubble. "He probably thinks the strain of the possession knocked Harry out, or sapped him into oblivion. But he’s very much conscious, just confused."

Albus Dumbledore sighed heavily. "It is as we expected. Voldemort has found his way here, and the Death Eaters are arriving." A small group of professors and doctors has moved away from the celebration into the small anteroom behind the great hall.

"They are contained, however, in the garden, for now." Severus Snape looked carefully into a small glass ball. "How surprised they will be. I don’t think they have any idea that we were expecting them."

Mr. Hemsley, the goblin, frowned. "He’s not carrying the charm anymore, is he."

Dr. Chen manipulated the bubble again. "I can’t tell from here, to be honest. Does he need to be carrying it?"

"Well, not necessarily. He did touch it, didn’t he Albus?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes, he certainly did. It’s probably still in his pocket. He’ll be able to hear it, yes?"

The goblin nodded. "Yes, yes, both of them will be able to hear it shortly."

Madam Pomfrey shook her head sadly. "That poor boy. This will be quite a trial for him. It will be a task, patching him back up after this."

"I know Poppy. But do prepare for the Malfoy boy as well. He will need even more of your attention, I expect." Dumbledore sounded tired and sad.

Madam Pomfrey snorted.

Dumbledore sighed. "Now, Poppy…you know what they had to do to him to make this possible." Madam Pomfrey nodded, only somewhat sympathetically.

Professor McGonagall slumped down into a chair. "Oh, Albus, was it wise not to tell Harry what kind of danger he was in? I don’t think he even took his wand with him."

"He doesn’t need his wand, Minerva. Besides, Mr. Malfoy was carrying a potion that would allow him to read Harry’s mind; if he used it, which I expect he did, he would have seen it in him if Harry had been warned. We would have lost our chance, and probably would have put Harry in even more danger." Dumbledore was no where near as confident in this statement as he sounded. He felt terrible for using Harry this way. Were they really any better than Voldemort, using the boy to capture their enemy? As a tool, a means toward an end, as Draco had been?

Mr. Hemlsey looked pensive. "If Malfoy used that potion on Harry, he’ll hear the charm as well, Albus. That may work against us."

"Or for us, " Snape noted, still peering into the small glass ball. Professor McGonagall exchanged glances with Dumbledore.

"We shall see." He sat down, and waited.

Harry felt as if he were floating in a void. He could see nothing, feel nothing. He tried to move, but found that he couldn’t; he wasn’t even sure where his limbs were, or if he still had limbs. It was as if he had been bound and gagged, or if he had been disconnected from his body. This made him nervous. What had happened? Draco. Charming, beautiful Draco. He told me to run. Run from what? And that sphere, that came out of him, and came after me…went through me. Draco. What have you done? Harry realized something was dreadfully wrong. He struggled, but found there was nothing for him to struggle with, or against. Suddenly he heard something, and stopped trying to struggle to listen to it. Thub. Thub. Thub. It sounded like something rotating slowly, getting a little faster as he listened. Thub. Thub. Thub. As he stopped struggling, he began to feel something. It was his scar. It was pounding, pulsing with his heartbeat. As he concentrated on it, he began to see.

What he saw first was Lucius Malfoy. He was smiling at him, and speaking. He was pointing to a hole, a black void in the air next to him. Death Eaters were climbing out of it, one by one. Before he got a look at who they were, he found himself looking back to Lucius, and over his shoulder. There was a small crowd of Death Eaters there. He couldn’t tell what they were doing.

Slowly, he began to hear things, as well. He could hear himself talking. But, it wasn’t him, he was hearing someone using his voice.

"Yes, he’s alive," he was saying. "He’s still here, within me. As long as he lives, I can tap his power, use his gifts, the way he stole mine when he evaded my curse as a screaming baby, the little thief. He’s overcome now, unconscious. I shall feel him when he begins to stir. When he does, Lucius, I’ll need you to help me contain him, so that he does not stir again. You understand?" Lucius was nodding.

With a shock, he realized who it was. Voldemort. It came back to him now; the greenish black sphere, his scar burning, Draco looking terrified. Draco had brought him to Voldemort. Draco had given Voldemort Harry’s body. Draco had used his own body to bring Harry’s to Voldemort. Harry seethed as the entire plan unfolded in front of him. Liar. Traitor. He was a Death Eater after all. How did he get into Hogwarts? He knew Harry cared for him. He used him, he knew he could seduce him, use his own body as an ingredient in some…some potion to allow Voldemort into Hogwarts. You Bastard, Draco. I rescued you, and now you betray me. I loved you, and this is how you respond. You take advantage of it. Thub. Thub. Thub. Voldemort was speaking again.

"They will be aware of us shortly," Voldemort was using Harry’s voice to say. "We must make our attack now. Goyle!" He shouted. "Lead the others forward, quickly! We need to use our advantage." Voldemort looked over his shoulder, and Harry saw Draco.

The sight was shocking. He was crouched on the grass, shivering, clutching his cloak around his shoulders. Where his arms were visible, they were covered with scars and sores; his hair was dull and missing in patches. His face, which looked up into his now, was thin, tired, and deathly pale, his skin bluish purple under his eyes. He looked underfed, weak, terrified, and in pain. Oh Draco, what did they do to you? How could you chose him over me? Harry felt sick. Thub thub thub. Voldemort pressed a hand to his head.

Thub thub thub. "What is that infernal noise?" Voldemort said. Lucius looked at him curiously.

"What…what noise, Lord?"

"That…that thubbing noise, can’t you hear it? It’s getting louder." Harry was puzzled. He and Voldemort could hear it, but the others looked confused.

Lucius paled. "Perhaps…it’s an effect of the–"

"It doesn’t matter, Lucius. We have work to do. Bring me my wand." Lucius pulled a slim wand out of his sleeve and handed it to Voldemort. Harry could feel it in his hand, he could feel Voldemort manipulating his fingers. He was getting increasing control of his body. He noted that if could move his arm a little, but avoided doing so too obviously. It was clear to Harry that Voldemort couldn’t sense him. Thub thub thub thub. Suddenly Harry realized where that sound was coming from, and what it probably was.

It’s the charm, Harry thought. Dumbledore knew about this, or suspected it would happen. The charm, it’s a key for something. It’s going to help me break free. Thub thubthubthubthubthub.

Voldemort was casting a spell. Power surged out from Harry, hitting a barrier along the edge of the garden, which glowed green, and then disappeared again. Harry felt a start, as if he had been asleep until now. Now he felt entirely within his body, he felt almost entirely in control. He reached out, and felt Voldemort’s reserves of power, and his own.

"As I expected," Voldemort was saying, speaking softly now. "They have us contained. Zabini!" He shouted. "Be prepared, I’m going to take that barrier down. I–" Thubthubthubthubthub.

"What is that damnable…" Voldemort sighed, and held up his wand, concentrating. Harry could feel him touching the barrier, could feel him considering the source of it, finding its workings, looking for the key to opening it. "Lasciarlo," he whispered, and Harry could feel him attempting to draw on Harry’s power. Harry blocked him, thowing Voldemort’s reserves at him instead, diverting most of it away from the barrier. Voldemort faltered, and nearly collapsed. His spell failed, and Harry sensed his confusion. Such a simple spell, why can’t I do this? Harry had more control over both of them now than Voldemort did, still unbeknownst to Voldemort. Harry felt stronger, stronger than he had ever felt. He sensed Voldemort’s defeat, and his drained resources. Harry wasn’t as easy a target as he must have anticipated.

THUBTHUBTHUBTHUB. "Lucius." Voldemort whispered huskily. "Bring that barrier down." Voldemort pressed his hand to his temple, feeling drained. No matter, he thought. I have Potter, and I will soon destroy this blasted place.

The charm. Harry thought. The charm is weakening him, and strengthening me. I need that charm. Voldemort was drained now, Harry could feel his power receding inside him. He turned, and looked at Draco, who he found looking at him oddly. Get the charm, Draco. It’s in the pocket of my robes. Get it.

Draco felt that he was hallucinating, which was becoming a rather familiar feeling. He could hear Harry’s voice in his head. First it was confused, then angry. The anger had nearly killed him. You bastard, Draco. I rescue you and you betray me. This was not the way that Draco had pictured this meeting, but he realized how naïve he had been. Thub. Thub. Thub. Voldemort had no intention of letting Harry made a decision; he didn’t intend to convince him of the wisdom of his ways. He only wanted to steal his power, his body, and simply inhabit him, like a snail. Like a parasite. Oh, it was a brilliant plan, and Draco hated him for it. Liar. Traitor. Thub. Thub. Thub. Thub.

What was that noise? He saw that Voldemort heard it too, but his father didn’t. Draco wondered. He could heard it near him, somewhere in the pile of clothes. Thub. Thubthubthubthubthub. Perhaps it was part of his hallucination. He wished he were dead. He was sure he would probably die soon anyway.

The others were ignoring him now. He was too weak to stand, so he crouched on the grass, trying to keep warm. He ran his hand through his hair, which fell out in clumps.

Draco saw Harry/Voldemort turn to him. For a moment, he saw a gleam of green in those blackened eyes. Get the charm, Draco. It’s in the pocket of my robes. Get it. Did Voldemort just order him to do something? Or was that Harry? Did he speak out loud? Was it a hallucination of Harry’s voice, or could he still hear Harry, the effects of his potion in Harry’s pumpkin juice? Draco had no idea, and had long ago stopped questioning the voice of Voldemort in his head. He reached into Harry’s robes, piled on the ground in front of him, and his hands touched something cold and smooth. THUBTHUBTHUBTHUBTHUB. He pulled it out.

The small piece of amethyst had a small, clear, polished stone in the middle. The clear stone seemed to be making the noise, rotating rapidly, vibrating in Draco’s hand. He looked up.

Voldemort had dropped to his knees, and Lucius was looking at him aghast. Meanwhile, Goyle and the other Death Eaters had broken through the barrier around the garden, and Draco could see them running up the steps into Hogwarts. Voldemort was looking over at him, and Lucius began whispering, waving his wand carefully.

Hold it toward me, Draco. Hold it up. Harry could feel Lucius spell working against him, trying to contain him. He felt as if a lid were closing in on him. Draco had heard the voice, he had heard Harry. He gripped the charm and held it up toward Voldemort and Lucius. THUBTHUBTHUBTHUB–

And the stone stopped rotating, falling silent. Voldemort’s eyes turned green, and he held out his palm toward Draco. Harry felt as if he were shrinking, but kept his eyes on the clear stone within it’s ring of purple. With a strangled scream, a greenish black smoke inched out of his hand. Blood dripped from Harry’s temples like sweat, his skin bubbled on his palm and up his arm. Harry was pushing Voldemort out, and the stone, trembling, but no longer rotating, was pulling him in.

Harry felt as if he were lifting Hogwarts up onto his shoulders as the full weight of Lucius pushed down on him. He felt the sludge of Voldemort’s consciousness struggling not to leak out through his veins, but slowly turning to a smoky substance outside his body. He squeezed his eyes shut, collapsed onto his knees, breathing heavily, blood clouding his eyes.

Just when he thought he could not bear up under the weight pushing down on him, he felt something warm and smooth and powerful touch his head. His scar glowed, bringing in a white, light strength that eased him, extended the reach of his own strength.

Good, Harry. You’re doing well. Force him out. He’s weak now, too weak to fight back. Harry didn’t know who spoke, but a foreign strength was there, bearing down on Voldemort, pushing back on Lucius. He was nearly gone, inching his way along Harry’s arm. And he was angry. Weak, but angry. In the last inches, Voldemort struck back; he lashed out at Harry with the remains of his power, slicing into his heart with a coldness like a knife. Harry reeled on his knees and fell, one arm still outstretched. You little whore’s son, Voldemort spat out. Harry felt his heart stop. He was no longer breathing. He felt the white strength in him take over, and press Voldemort out of his body. At the edges of his consciousness, he heard Lucius scream. He knew no more.

Draco watched Harry fall, and saw that ball of greenish black smoke form. Lucius, terrified, threw himself into the smoke, screaming. He disappeared, and the sphere of smoking thickened. The charm in Draco’s hand began to rotate again, faster and louder than ever.

THUBTHUBTHUBTHUBTHUB.

Draco screamed as the sphere rushed forward, pushed him over, and, with faint screeching noise like fingers on a blackboard, was drawn into the charm. It glowed green, became hot, and then stopped moving. Draco passed out.

9 

Harry Potter knew what to expect when he walked into the Three Broomsticks. It was raining hard outside, thunder rumbling along the edges of the day. Almost three years ago, he had apparated just around the corner, on the way to the great Hogwarts celebratory feast. And celebratory it was; Voldemort had been effectively destroyed, trapped in a crystal and amethyst prison kept safe by Dumbledore. The remaining Death Eaters had been easily overcome by a handful of prepared wizards, and all were imprisoned, without the help of Dementors. Without Voldemort, the Death Eater actions were half-hearted and weak; they were still abroad, still making attempts to seize control and whip up a fury of fear, but the tide had changed.

Harry had no memory of the rest of that night. He had woken up some days later in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, under the careful eye of Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore, and Professor McGonagall. They had spoken for long hours afterwards, discussing the events. Harry had not wanted to discuss Draco’s betrayal, and Dumbledore respected that. Harry had admitted that Draco had tried to stop it in the end, though only after he had already done the required damage. Everyone knew that it had been Draco who held the charm that had imprisoned Voldemort; it had been found in his hand, as he lay face down in the grass. But there was no denying how complete his betrayal had been.

When he had readied himself to leave Hogwarts and go back to his London flat, Dumbledore had lead him to another area of the hospital wing. There, he showed him Draco. Harry was shocked. He was barely alive. He had seen hints of the damage done to him that night, but now he saw the extent of it. He was almost unrecognizable; that flawless skin that Ron had inspected was a mockery; Harry couldn’t help wondering if it had hurt him, arrogant and vain as Draco was, to see himself perfected for only an evening, only to return to this broken body. Harry reached out and stroked his hair absently, surprised to see too much of it come off in his hand. His skin was practically transparent, with a greenish tinge, his lips were ragged , as though he had been biting on them for months. He mumbled a little at Harry’s touch; his voice destroyed, even his mumbles sounded crackled and rough.

"You see," Dumbledore noted, "he also has been betrayed." He said no more on the subject.

Harry had gone back home to London, and had a long talk with Ron and Hermione. They took it all in quietly. It was so clear that Harry was tortured over this topic that Ron even avoiding saying ‘I told you so’.

"Honestly, Harry," Hermione sighed. "I had wondered about it, when he stopped calling me names. He had always looked at you differently than he looked at everyone else. And that Quidditch game at graduation, it was positively affectionate. It all makes so much sense now." She put an arm around him, and leaned her head against his shoulder, taking his hand in hers and giving it a squeeze. "I’m so sorry Harry."

Ron had sat quietly. "You know," He started. Then lapsed into thought. "I saw him, when I went in to see you, while you were sleeping." Harry nodded stonily. "Did you talk to Dumbledore about…"

"I…" Harry sighed. "I’m really angry about it, Ron. I know they did horrible things to him, and I don’t know how to deal with that. I’m so angry with him for what he did to me, but I also feel really guilty about what they did to him. I even think…well, sometimes, I wonder if he meant even some of what he said to me…"

Hermione gave him a squeeze. "No doubt he did, Harry. No doubt." Harry didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it.

In the coming weeks, The Daily Prophet was full of stories, full of pictures of Draco as he had looked in his school days. The images looked out at the readers angrily, and it surprised no one that he had betrayed the Ministry, Dumbledore, and Harry Potter. There was some argument about what should be done with him, the young traitor. No one seemed certain what did happen to him; one day, the papers just stopped mentioning it, as happier news became the rule of the day. Hermione clipped these articles out of the paper, kept them in a folder, and hid them from Harry. She knew it would be too painful for him to see these images now, those angry, defiant images of Draco. Harry kept his own records. He wrote many letters; Some of them very angry, accusatory, tear-stained. Some of them were affectionate, forgiving. Some of them were both. But he sent none of them. He kept them in a file in his desk, as a kind of reminder. Hedwig nipped at him gently, holding out her leg, but Harry held on to those letters, even long after he had ceased to write them.

That day, when the rain pounded down on Hogsmeade late in November, Harry had already familiarized himself with Draco’s recent history. It had taken Draco a year and a half to recover, but recover he did. Dumbledore had kept him at Hogwarts for a while, and later he had come to work for the Ministry. He had uncovered seven groups of Death Eaters still meeting, all pushing rival wizards as the new Dark Lord. He had been captured twice, but had not capitulated. Dumbledore trusted him. And then, a couple of weeks ago, an unmarked envelope had turned up on Harry’s desk. In it was a copy of Draco’s statement on the whole affair, which had been classified, and Harry had never wanted to see it, even when given the chance. Now, with the benefit of some years distance, Harry took home the envelope home him, and read over and over. He wept. For so long he had wanted to see this as black vs. white, good vs. evil, fear vs. love, and he saw now that it was just not so simple. He felt horribly torn. He looked over all his letters, and realized that he had to confront this, he had to see him again. And here he found himself, scheduling a meeting with Draco in Hogemeade, knowing that he had arrived a few days early. He was walking into both his own nightmares, and his own fantasies.

He knew Draco was there when he walked in. He looked back to the dark corners, and saw that blonde head before he saw anything else. He smiled to himself, and admitted that he was nervous. He ordered a butterbeer and sat down at the table across from him. Draco was reading a book, Strangers in a Strange Land. A muggle book, of all things. Harry looked at him. If he were honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was staring.

Then Draco shivered. He had noticed Harry’s eyes on him. He dropped the book, and their eyes met. Harry had no idea what he felt. Partly, he was thinking about the boy who huffily asked him not to make him get sensitive; partly he was thinking about how Voldemort had raped his memories, tempted him with Harry himself, drugged him and destroyed him. Party he thought about Draco, looking radiant, scoffing at Ron’s suspicion of him. Draco’s eyes were filled with emotions; fear, shame, sadness, hope, and even, unless Harry was fooling himself, even affection. Draco rose, walked the short twelve feet between them, and sat down with him.

"Hello, Harry." He said, sounding forcibly cheerful. Harry felt that voice more than he heard it. He was transported for a moment, thinking about that crying blonde boy he had seen on a couch in an abandoned wing at Hogwarts. How many different faces he has, he thought. All of them true. Draco was looking at his hands. "Harry…" he reached over and touched Harry’s hand. He didn’t move. He didn’t want to move. That touch was still electric. He heard Draco sigh.

"You’ve got me at a serious disadvantage here, Potter, you know that." Draco smiled grimly. "I’ve been a complete arse, not to mention a ruddy fool, I betrayed you, and you have every right to hate me. In fact, I wouldn’t even blame you if you pulled out your wand right now and killed me on the spot. I don’t think anyone would." Draco was looking at his hands again. Harry smiled.

"I’ve been writing you letters, reams of them, I have about fourteen feet of them, but I never send them. It seemed so selfish. I…figured you’d need to…get on with your life, and…well, I could hardly expect you to…make me feel better, of all people. I couldn’t ask you to forgive me. I don’t expect that from you, Harry, it’s too much…after what I’ve done."

"Why did you tell me to run?" Harry asked quietly. It was an element of the story that he had spent years shying away from, because it was so complicated for him. Harry couldn’t count how many times he had wished Draco had just been pure evil, and laughed and cheered when Voldemort had taken over his body.

Draco looked up at him, confused. "Why? Well, Harry, come on, I knew what was going to happen next. I knew it wasn’t going to be a string quartet and a three course meal flying out of my chest."

Harry laughed. He was surprised that he could laugh about it, but he found it surprisingly easy to do. It had been a long time, hadn’t it? Draco smiled sadly. Harry shook his head. "But wasn’t that…you know, the point?"

Draco sighed. He knew this conversation was going to be difficult, and he had rehearsed it a million times. "The point. The point…I…" Draco steeled himself. I owe him this much, at least. I owe him a lot more, but there’s only so far I can go. "Harry, I just didn’t really think that far ahead. I knew there was something, but Voldemort," Draco shuddered, but Harry did not, "made it sound as if…well, as if we were going to offer you something, I thought…I really thought…well, when it comes right down to it, I didn’t think." Draco was staring intently at the palm of his hand.

"Did you mean those things you said to me, or were they part of the…not thinking?"

Draco looked up at him. "You mean, before…" he bit his lip. "Yes, Harry. I did. I need another drink. Something harder. Excuse me." Draco got up and went to the bar, looking shaken. After a few moments he returned with glass of thick honey mead.

"Alright, so look. I know I was a right prick, and I can’t make it any better. I wish I could, I wish I could take it back. So I just want you to know that I’m sorry about it, I am truly, deeply sorry." He looked up into his face. "You’ll never know how sorry, because I’m simply not capable of communicating that." He turned and drank deeply from his mug. "There was a point where they had to chose; I could be gorgeous, or a good communicator. I can’t complain."

Harry laughed, feeling weightless. This was impossible. How could he still feel such tenderness toward someone who had betrayed him so utterly? Was it simply coming to understand that he had been vulnerable, he had been used, he had been useful to the enemy because he had loved Harry, and was afraid?

Draco continued, unable to bear the weight of any silence. "You should also know…well, this is Dumbledore talk now. You…believed me when no one else did, and I let you down. And I’ll never forgive myself for that. But it was because of you that I…" he stumbled. It was too much. He reached for his honey mead again, and took an extra long drink.

Harry reached over and pushed Draco’s robes off his arm. Draco flinched, and looked up in surprise. He felt like Ron, examining Draco’s arms again for the marks of his crimes. He slid his chair closer to him, and Draco proffered his arm. Looking at him curiously. He saw the Mark, a bit faded now. He also saw scars, well-healed and almost disappeared, light pink bumps and cuts, from that torturous year. These arms would never be flawless again. Harry’s heart broke. He leaned forward and kissed the tender skin of his inner elbow. Draco tensed, his eyes shut tight, breathing rapidly. Harry wrapped his arms around him, running his fingers through those fine, blond hairs at the back of his neck, and kissed him gently and simply. Draco wrapped his arms around Harry, and he trembled a little. Damn, Draco thought. He’s so good, even to me.

* * *

Haven`t seen you in quite a while

I was down the hold, just passing time

Last time we met it was a low-lit room

We were as close together as bride and groom

We ate the food, we drank the wine

Everybody having a good time

Except you

You were talking about the end of the world

I took the money, I spiked your drink

You miss too much these days if you stop to think

You led me on with those innocent eyes

You know I love the element of surprise

In the garden I was playing the tart

I kissed your lips and broke your heart

You,

You were acting like it was the end of the world

In my dream I was drowning my sorrows

But my sorrows they learned to swim

Surrounding me, going down on me

Spilling over the brim

In waves of regret, waves of joy

I reached out for the one I tried to destroy

You,

You said you’d wait until the end of the world

—U2, Until the End of the World