Prologue

Harry didn't even hear Draco's retreating footsteps. The other boy trod so lightly that he made no sound, and the only thing Harry could feel was the silent withdrawal, and the aching cold that rushed in to fill the void where passion and hope once were.

The shadows swirled in mocking serenity, although they scattered as they neared the broad swath of light from the Slytherin corridor that cut into the darkened classroom. Draco had not closed the door when he had left, and the column of dusty brightness stood solemnly, unwavering amidst pillars of hooded shadow.

He had been so stupid.

Hermione had been right. What had he expected to come out of this meeting, anyway? Truthfully — nothing. But somehow, Draco had managed to shatter expectations Harry never even had, by finding new ways to twist the knife without even sinking the blade.

So he was wrong about Draco. It wasn't the first time.

A draught of cold air curled around his neck, caressing his skin with its chill fingers. Harry unconsciously touched his hand to his throat, a gesture that had recently become almost habit, to make sure that the ring hadn't slipped off without his notice.

But it wasn't there. Harry's fingers slid over bare skin, and it felt... empty, as if something were missing. It was strange how he felt such an immense sense of loss over something that he had never even owned in the first place. Something that symbolised the burden that had been thrust upon him, which had wrecked every aspect of his life — Quidditch, studies, sleep, concentration, and worst of all, his friendship with Ron.

Then why did it still hurt so much?

Because he truly cared for Draco. Harry couldn't bring himself to even think the word love. Somehow that blond Slytherin held a place in Harry's heart that Harry never even knew existed, until now. Until he had lost it.

Harry felt his cheeks flush with mortification as he thought of the way Draco had kissed him only minutes ago. How he had responded to Draco's ravishing, losing himself in the kiss as everything else melted away in the heat of the moment. And then how Draco had jerked away, and calmly rejected him with a swift, killing word: "Nothing."

Draco had humiliated him, deliberately. He had manipulated Harry's feelings, stripping away his defences before delivering the coup de grace. Draco had drawn him into a helpless moment, and then cruelly mocked his weakness.

But wasn't that what he had done to Draco, as well?

The realisation made his insides coil. Harry sank back, lost in the haze of memories, which shimmered yet remained vivid like northern lights against a velvet night sky — and he was struck by the bitter symmetry of it all.

He had humiliated Draco by placing the handcuff upon him. A handcuff marked with his own name, branding Draco as his own. Even though he had meant it in part-jest, Harry remembered the shattered look in Draco's eyes, filled with pain but not quite hatred. And in a way, he had manipulated Draco's feelings, even though he hadn't meant to — during the Quidditch game, for instance. The memory of Draco's bloodied accident chilled him.

So many times before, he had drawn the Slytherin into moments of helpless anguish and yearning, so that Draco could not respond any other way than to kiss Harry, no matter how Draco tried to resist the attraction. Then Harry had mocked Draco's weakness — not with words, but with flat rejection. Like when he had turned away from Draco's kiss, during those moments stolen from Transfiguration class.

Harry closed his eyes, and leaned back against the cold hard wall. That shadow-lit memory seemed like eons ago. He felt a wave of gnawing pain wash through him, as the knife twisted deeper than he ever imagined — leaving a trail of defeat and regret bleeding in its bitter wake.

Maybe he deserved what Draco had done to him.

Quid pro quo.

And maybe he didn't deserve Draco after all.

I can't remember how it went
You looked like everything I wanted
And as you came along
Slowly everything began to change
I got you now

Draco walked quickly, and the cool air wafting from the dungeon stung his skin like snowflake kisses. But even in the chill of winter, his mind was clear as a cloudless summer day, washed clean like a sky after rain. It felt surreal.

Over the past couple of weeks, he had been so immersed in his dependence on Harry that being able to hold his own again felt strange, like a new skin that didn't quite fit. Of course, he'd quickly get used to being back to status quo with Harry. After all, that was what he had wanted all along.

Draco had known that it would only be a matter of time before Harry sought him out in private, and he had been carefully considering exactly how he wanted it to turn out. And the encounter with Harry had gone perfectly, just like he'd planned. As he strode away from the classroom where he had left Harry, Draco felt alert, poised, more in control of his faculties than he remembered having been in a long while.

And he liked it. The sense of power that he had regained rushed like adrenaline in his blood, invigorating him, making him feel as if everything were normal again. That he owned himself once more. He didn't need anyone else now.

He didn't need Harry.

And Draco had just demonstrated to Harry, in unequivocal terms, that he was in control now, and that he could conjure any beautiful illusion he wanted to, and shatter it at his own will. He should be proud of himself.

But he wasn't.

Draco realised that he was gripping his mother's ring so tightly in his palm that its smooth, curved edge had imprinted arced grooves in his flesh. He slowed his step slightly, and inspected the ring. Amethyst shimmered, and emerald eyes glittered back at him, winking in the dim light of the torches ranged along the walls leading toward the Slytherin dungeon.

Emerald eyes.

Draco had seen such pain in them, such wretched desolation, as Harry had stared back at him in disbelief before he slowly removed the ring and returned it. Draco had completely not expected that sort of reaction from Harry — but he had steeled himself to show no emotion.

Draco had no idea when things had changed, but he could sense the shift in the delicate balance between him and Harry. Although Harry wasn't the only one who was different now. He was, too.

Draco had not even spared Harry a backward glance as he left the classroom. The truth was that he couldn't bear to. And the complete lack of genuine satisfaction and gloating on his own part was puzzling, even disturbing. Hadn't he made a career of snatching victory from Harry Potter, and feeling nothing but glee each time he saw Harry stumble? That had been as conclusive a victory as he could dream of — watching the splintering of raw emotion in Harry's eyes, as the other boy bowed his head in quiet surrender.

But Draco felt no joy, only a lingering wistfulness that things had to end this way. It seemed neither of them had emerged from the love potion fiasco unscathed.

But there was nothing else he could do. It couldn't end any other way. There was too much involved now, and Draco wasn't going to risk losing more than he'd already let go of. And after he had been liberated from the love potion, he'd made a promise to himself — to never be so vulnerable to anyone. Never again, not in this life, would he make the same mistake twice.

Draco closed his eyes, and tried to let the memories burn.

1   Heaven's Wine

Heaven's poisoned wine;
Unnatural love, and more unnatural hate.


Harry walked silently across the grounds of Hogwarts, heading toward the Owlery. He was alone, and kept casting wary glances over his shoulder, the soft rustling of grass under his feet amplified a dozen times in the echoing silence in his mind. The gnarled trees of the Forbidden Forest formed ominous black silhouettes against the backdrop of endless dark sky, and gave Harry a distinctive feeling of unease.

Without his Invisibility Cloak, he felt exposed, vulnerable, as if every shadow was fleeing before him and leaving him conspicuous in the rays of moonlight. He'd lent it to Sirius, who was still in hiding and needed the protection of invisibility more than Harry did. Ever since he'd been without his Cloak Harry had cut back on his late night escapades, but tonight he hadn't been able to sleep a wink and decided to send off a letter to Sirius instead. Since Ron was already fast asleep, Harry had ventured out alone.

The night air was fresh, smelling of dew and cut grass, tinged with a faintly spicy scent owing to the exotic night blossoms from the Forbidden Forest just a short distance away. Harry inhaled deeply, savouring the subtle aroma which succinctly bore the essence of the restless Forest, strangely refreshing and darkly enticing at the same time.

Suddenly a flash of shimmering silver toward his right caught his eye, vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared. Harry glanced sharply it that direction as a soft rustle confirmed his suspicions. There was a dark movement in the bushes about a stone's throw away from him, and Harry's hand closed over his wand as he cautiously approached.

As he stepped closer, the black clouds overhead slid apart, allowing a generous shaft of moonlight to shine forth, and Harry's jaw promptly dropped as his eyes settled on the sight before him.

"Malfoy?!"

The slender figure jerked around in response, and Harry caught the briefest glint of silver as familiar eyes turned to look at him, though they were hooded with an unusual expression of utter surprise. Harry's eyes widened as they flickered quickly down to Malfoy's body, and rendered him speechless for a moment as he gawked in undisguised astonishment.

His voice was feeble with unfaded shock when the words finally found form on his lips,

"Malfoy — what are you doing naked?"

He wanted to be invisible.

Standing on the edge of night, the hedged boundary of the Forbidden Forest snaking into the shrouded darkness on either side of him, he felt as invisible as he could ever remember. The velvet sky above bore down upon him, feeble streaks of ivory moonlight cutting faintly across the endless black canvas of night.

But of course, from another's viewpoint, such as one of the silent owls swooping overhead, he far from blended into the living night all around him. His light-blond hair shone a liquid silver in the moonlight, and his pale complexion was tinged with an unearthly sort of glow, as if radiating from within, silhouetted against the stark night. He stood out from his surroundings arrogantly and gracefully, not with the awkwardness of one ill-concealed, but with the unique air of one meant to be different.

Draco's boots plodded softly on the damp mud, and the grass rustled in welcome as he neared the Forest, radiant and seething with life in the still night. In his right hand he tightly clasped a small vial of colourless fluid, clear as crystal yet shimmering opaque under the moonlight. Draco's slender fingers gripped the little container hard, and he carefully watched the precious liquid as he stealthily approached the Forest.

He'd been working on this potion in absolute secrecy for the past few weeks, painstakingly gathering all the needed ingredients — pinching them from Snape's private store cupboard, buying them off a shady character lurking in a Hogsmeade alleyway. He never knew a potion could be so hard to concoct — why certain ingredients were added he didn't understand, but the instructions were clear enough and he just followed them as such. On more than a few occasions he'd asked himself if it was worth all the trouble and risk, but in each instance his answer had been yes.

He had few aspirations in life, and apart from those that were impelled on him, one that sprung of his own origin was the desire to be invisible. He could truthfully say that it wasn't with voyeuristic intention — he'd wanted this ever since he was a kid, and the longing for this particular ability had grown steadily stronger as he eased out of childhood, sordid purposes notwithstanding.

All he wanted was to be able to disappear for a while, to hide away and be by himself. He wanted to be able to take a step back and observe other people without them noticing him, to slip away without anyone knowing where he was going. Of course, being invisible opened a world of other possibilities — pranks to pull, mischief to perpetrate — but those weren't his primary reasons for wanting invisibility so badly.

He'd found this spellbook in his father's vast library over the summer — it was ancient and ragged, so old that the page numbers were in Roman numerals. It was almost falling apart, held together by a brittle thread crisp with age that had promptly frayed when he tried to open the book, causing the sheets of yellowed parchment to flutter to the floor. He'd hastily gathered the loose paper and hurried them back to his room for perusal. The pages were torn and stained and generally worse for wear, and not all of them were clearly numbered as the edges of the paper had deteriorated over the years, but he'd managed to sift through the book and to his utmost delight, found a faded, half-shredded page detailing a Loss Of Substance potion — bingo.

The spell turned out to be extremely tricky — but it was supposed to be a powerful Dark Arts spell, and if it'd been simple as a wave of the wand, Draco would've doubted the authenticity of that claim. With focused determination, he'd managed to gather all the necessary elements needed in the final stage of the potion, except for one.

A wild black rose. That had proved to be the most difficult to obtain; he'd scoured the floral shops in all of Hogsmeade, looking for a wild rose that had been black from the earliest bud and not dyed or magically cultured. He even owled Calyx & Corolla (the most established owl-order florist enterprise around) for it, but they were more expensive than even he could afford, since the roses were only in season in Scotland at this time of year. He'd finally been told that his best bet would be to look in the Forbidden Forest, where all variety of growths (as well as other more savage flora and fauna) bloomed verdantly, particularly when darkness fell.

And so here he was, at slightly past midnight, approaching the Forest with no small measure of caution, praying inwardly that he'd be able to find a black rose near the fringes of the woods without having to venture further within (ever since his first year, he'd held an deeply entrenched fear of the Forest at night).

As fortune would have it, he was in luck; his heart leapt as his sharp eyes fell upon a dark blossom nestled in the shadows of a Snapping Bush. Careful not to jostle the volatile bush, Draco dropped to his knees and squinted down at the petaled outline of the rose, the colour of which was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding night.

His fingers trembled slightly as he reached for the flower, feeling the sharp thorns scraping his skin as he gingerly dislodged it from the ground, and it came free with surprising ease. Shaking the loose soil off the stem, Draco held it up at eye level for a better look — the velvet petals of pure black caught the milky moonlight, reflecting nothing.

Draco smiled in satisfaction. The most beautiful rose, painted in the colour of night.

He allowed himself a moment to admire the perfect bloom held in his hand, before he got to work. He only needed the petals, and he carefully removed them from the stalk, the texture like black satin against his fingertips, and dropped them, one by one, into the vial of potion he'd prepared with the other ingredients. The clear liquid promptly turned crimson with the fallen petals — not a trace of black from the rose, but a fresh, vibrant red, vivid and hot-blooded. It was ready — and it had to be consumed immediately. There was no turning back, not now.

Taking a deep breath, Draco closed his eyes and tossed back the entire portion in a silent gulp.

It burned. It burned like a molten fire beneath his skin, flaying his nerves with an uncommon sensation that made him gasp. His blood felt like slivers of ice under his warm skin, waves of heat upon veins of cold. He tentatively opened his eyes, then quickly shut them again as vertigo kicked in, blurring his vision. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and his entire body flushed with a sudden heat, like hot breath shivering down his spine, obliterating the initial chill like rising mercury in his blood.

The heat was suffocating; Draco vaguely wondered if that was a sign of the spell working, and he fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, yanking his collar apart and breathing slightly easier as the cold night air rushed against his bare, glistening skin, soothing the heat that raged from within.

In a flourish his fingers pried the rest of the buttons open, and his white shirt fell to the ground, translucent in the half-darkness. He squinted, holding his hands out before him, trying to make out whether he had become insubstantial yet, but a persistent whirring inside his head kept his focus at bay. A stinging heat still itched over the parts of his body still clothed, and he was about to undress himself from waist down when a loud rustle of dried twigs crunching underfoot made him freeze in mid-movement.

There was someone coming.

Draco spun around, coming face to face with Harry, who had a stunned expression in his dark green eyes. Harry's mouth was slack, and he stared at Draco in disbelief.

"Malfoy — what are you doing naked?"

A fleeting look of alarmed surprise flitted across Draco's features, partially obscured in the darkness, and a brief silence laced with tension lapsed before Draco finally spoke.

"You— you can see me?" Draco couldn't keep the bewilderment from his voice, almost matching the dumbstruck expression on Harry's face.

Harry now looked disgusted. "Of course I can see you. What I can't see are your clothes where they should be, and that's the problem. What the hell are you doing?"

Malfoy stared down at himself, a mixed look of dismay and incomprehension, then up at Harry again.

"You can actually see me?" Draco repeated, nonplussed and rarely, looking rather flustered. He instinctively reached down to pick up his shirt, lying on the damp grass.

"You're standing naked in the wide open, it's kind of hard to miss!" Harry sounded annoyed, and resolutely turned his face away from Malfoy. "Get something on, will you?"

"I'm not naked," Draco snapped back, with as much dignity as one hastily dressing could possibly muster. "I'm half-clothed from waist down, if you didn't notice."

"No, I didn't notice, and thank goodness for that." Harry paused, and sneaked a glare at Draco, who was busy doing up the buttons of his shirt, mismatching them, and didn't notice him. "What the hell are you doing, Malfoy, prancing around the Forest topless in the middle of the night? Some tribal dance to the moon god? Have you gone insane?" Harry shook his head in mock bafflement. "I always had my suspicions about you, Malfoy, but I never thought you'd be so stark raving mad to run around Hogwarts in the buff."

"Yes, because I might just about run into Filch, won't I, and this is really sort of his thing," Draco shot back sarcastically, challenging Harry's glare as he adjusted his collar, lopsided because of the mismatched buttons down his front. "I appreciate your concern, Potter, but you can do me a big favour right now by just getting lost."

"I can report you," Harry pointed out calmly.

"Yes, and you can also explain what you were doing walking around the Forest at this time of night," Draco snapped impatiently. He was anxious to get rid of Harry as soon as he could, since he had no idea how soon after being imbibed did the Loss Of Substance potion take effect, and he'd have a lot more explaining to do if Potter saw him disappear into thin air before his eyes.

Harry's expression didn't alter one bit. "What are you doing, Malfoy?" he asked again, his tone even, his jaw set. He seemed to be a lot more composed now that Draco was fully clothed, and it was apparent that he wasn't going anywhere without the answer he demanded.

"It's none of your damn business, Potter," Draco spat, his tone menacing yet imperceptibly desperate. "Go away." A pause, then added for intimidating effect, "Or I'll hex you, and don't think I won't dare to."

"And don't think I won't retaliate." A note of anger found its way into Harry's voice, and he narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on Draco in the half-darkness, which was hard since the moon overhead had slid behind a black cloud and the meagre light lingered like mist between them.

Harry took a step forward, his fingers tightening around his wand.

Draco tensed, every muscle in his body poised for action, his nerves ostensibly proliferated by the potion filtering through his blood. It was a strangely exciting feeling; he'd partly expected the sensation to be ethereal, dreamlike, like floating on a cloud as his physical form evaporated. But the feeling that charged his body now was completely different, yet entirely new — it felt denser, as if he was more fully immersed in his present body than ever before. His senses were heightened, now sharp as the point of a blade, and the low murmur of the restive night throbbed like a deafening pulse in time with his own heartbeat.

It felt... strange. And wrong.

Draco took a step backwards, the sense of uneasiness rising inexorably within him, a wild sort of anxiety and fear overwhelming him, much like the panicked sort of realisation when you were on a flying carpet halfway to Arabia and suddenly remembered you left the shower on back home. And now uppermost in Draco's mind was getting rid of Harry before anything else happened.

"Potter, I swear, if you don't..." Draco started, his voice hard with anger, just when the clouds above suddenly shifted, revealing the moon once again, and pearly-white rays flowed through the dark night sky, falling obliquely across Harry's face and illuminating his features with an unnatural pale light, and Draco abruptly stopped dead in his tracks.

The blinding flash of lightning scorched through his mind without warning; it wasn't accompanied by pain but closely chased by another unnamed sensation that bled through his entire being, intense and undiluted, twisted discomfort and ecstasy at the same time. His vision blurred momentarily, then came into sharp focus — the background of dark trees dissolved into view, slanted by the stinging glow of incandescent moonlight, and...

...and Harry.

Harry stood before him, looking increasingly nervous at Draco's strange behaviour, and all Draco could do was stare at him, helpless as the aching sensation rushed through his veins and engulfed him. It left his mind shaken but disturbingly clear as it flooded his body, as every fibre yielded to this terrifying new sensation which possessed him whole.

The horror sparkled in Draco's shocked grey eyes still unswervingly fixated on Harry, with the moonlight flowing down on his shoulders like liquid pearl.

"Malfoy?" Harry began uncertainly, and raised his right hand to brush his dark fringe out his eyes, but to Draco it was as if Harry had reached out his fist and snatched into his chest, dragging him closer, and he staggered forward out of his own volition, completely unprovoked.

Before Draco knew what was happening, he had breached the distance that lay between them in quick, silent strides. His hands moved up to hold Harry's startled face, and in the space of a next heartbeat he was kissing Harry, hard and full on the lips, his manner deeply passionate, hopelessly desperate.

Harry barely had time to react, and his muffled protest was drowned by Draco's lips closing over his mouth, and the sheer shock paralysed him for a few moments, rendering him incapable of movement. Draco's lips burned feverishly against his, kissing him with all the fervour of someone drunk on a dangerous addiction, and it took several instants to melt by before the thought fragment Malfoy is kissing you! pried its way through the confused astonishment and catalysed Harry to action.

Harry shoved Draco away from him, violently, and stumbled backwards, gasping softly, covering his mouth with his hands as the sweetly stinging sensation still lingered on his lips.

"Malfoy!" Harry sputtered, utterly stunned, breathless from the forcefulness of Draco's kiss. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Harry seldom swore unless absolutely necessary, and this situation without a doubt qualified.

When he lifted his eyes to meet Draco's, he found that the horror in them far surpassed his own.

The look of pure dismay and revulsion on Draco's face arrested any further words from Harry. Draco looked positively wretched, and the choked expression spoke more eloquently than he could ever articulate. He stared at Harry, disgust mingling with complete disbelief.

"What— what just happened?" His voice quavered, and faltered a notch.

"You tell me," Harry responded furiously, the initial shock fading and giving way to outrage. "What in living hell are you trying to do, Malfoy!?"

"Did I— did I just kiss you?" The same traumatized voice.

"Yes you bloody well did." Harry's breathing was still quick and shallow as he tried to regain composure, and he braced himself against the trunk of a nearby tree, feeling none too steady. "What was that about?!"

Draco didn't seem to hear Harry's question. "That is disgusting."

Draco's voice was still toneless, almost hollow. He closed his eyes, feeling strangely detached despite the frenetic rise of horror within him. He knew what just happened, and he didn't want to think about it, didn't even want to remember it.

Rage flushed Harry's cheeks. "Disgusting? You grab me and force yourself on me, and you say it's disgusting?" Harry appeared to want nothing more than to reach over and choke the life out of Draco, but given what happened the last time they had bodily contact just moments before, he seemed to think better of it. He angrily wiped the back of his hand over his mouth "You're revolting, Malfoy."

Draco was about to shoot back a long rant coloured with expletives when Harry's words stabbed through him, evoking an unfamiliar aching twinge inside him, much like the sensation that had thrilled through him before what he didn't want to remember happened.

What is going on? What's happening to me?

Those questions demanded answers, but they would have to wait till later. For the present he had to contend with a very livid Harry who looked as if he was ready to beat the crap out of him any moment now, and considering his current dazed state Draco wasn't too sure he was in for a fight like that.

He raised his eyes to Harry's; and it happened again, like an electric jolt through his body, only more intense and penetrating, lancing through flesh and marrow right into his soul. Draco started, and a soft involuntary gasp escaped his lips; he remembered the same burning feeling, and it threatened to...

He could feel himself falling into those cold emerald eyes, the colour of jade flashing through his mind, the colour of desire and passion and hate and want and horror all twisted into one cord that bound itself around his heart, drawing him closer to Harry, or Harry closer to him, he didn't know which...

Get out of here. Now.

With a muffled exclamation that sounded a lot like "Oh god", Draco frantically wrenched his gaze from Harry's, feeling the dull pain rip through him as he did so, and before he forgot what he had to do, Draco whirled around and tore away in the opposite direction. He didn't bother to disguise the sound of his running footsteps, and he raced across the grounds without a backward glance, as fast as his legs could carry him.

Harry stood uncomprehending, staring amazedly after Draco as the other boy abruptly turned on his heel and fled. Bizarre, he thought, confounded, absently dropping to his knees on the soft grass and picking up an object that glinted in the moonlight. It was a clear glass vial, completely empty except for traces of vivid red, which looked to Harry suspiciously like blood, although he didn't think it was.

The tingling sensation still touched his lips, the remnant heat of Draco's kiss, and Harry shook his head, completely baffled. Of all the people he'd expected to kiss in his life, Draco Malfoy was one of the last.

Harry frowned. Oh, how absolutely sickening. Malfoy, of all people.

He decided to head back to Gryffindor Tower, having had enough unpleasant surprises for the night, before another strange occurrence which might not leave him quite so unscathed stormed into his path. But for all I know, if I go insane or develop some chronic illness in a few years time, Harry thought grimly, it might be traceable to this.

Slipping the glass vial into his pocket, the letter to Sirius completely forgotten, Harry slowly walked back to Gryffindor Tower, where he quietly crept up into the dorm and went to his bed. But it was only long after he lay down did sleep finally come upon him.

Oh god. What just happened? Oh god.

The words ran through his mind like a feverish mantra, and Draco closed his eyes as he stumbled into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, not quite caring if he woke anyone. The oddest part was that his mind was clear and unhazed through it all, so he couldn't blame it on a foggy head, although his body was in anguish — a strange, unreal sort of agony, like the memory of a terrifying nightmare haunting waking hours.

He brushed his teeth five times running, to clear his mouth of the taste of Harry, until his gums were sore and started to bleed. The metallic taste of blood on his tongue awakened his senses, drawing out the sense of panic once again.

What just happened?

He knew bloody well what just happened. He just kissed Harry Potter, that's what happened. The thought of it made him nauseated, even though at the very same time an entrenched part of him yearned for the perverse, forbidden pleasure of it all over again.

What went wrong? Why didn't the potion work like it was supposed to?

With his tongue raw and tingling from the minty aftertaste of toothpaste, Draco made his way back to his dorm, retrieved the tattered book of spells and brought it down with him to the Slytherin common room. It was dark and cold, much like the way he was feeling right now, and Draco pointed his wand at the bare fireplace. It burst forth with a crackle of orange flames, and the warmth diffused through him like a calming wave, although it didn't dispel the persistent pang that still troubled him; the ache of emptiness.

Settling down on the floor, leaning against one side of the sofa, Draco opened the book, absently fingering the stubby knot where he had re-tied the binding thread. He flipped open to the page that detailed the Loss Of Substance potion, and found himself staring at the list of familiar ingredients. He carefully ran a finger down the list, mentally checking off each element he had used, going through the procedure again in his mind, exactly as the book had instructed. The potion had been perfectly concocted.

His sharp eyes followed his forefinger to the end of the page, and picked up a sentence he had not noticed before, which he was sure hadn't been there the last time he looked, but was now written in faded, dark blue ink.

Draco leaned forward earnestly, squinting; the writing was slightly smudged and rather cursive, but the Latin phrase it spelled out could be read clearly enough:


Traicit et fati litora magnus amor.


Draco stared at it, and blinked. Disbelieving, he snatched up the book and checked the pages frantically; but due to extensive handling, the page numbers were by now blurred beyond recognition. His entire body went rigid with cold fear as a sense of deep, horrendous dread filled him, and comprehension of the phrase filtered into his conscious mind, which translated:


A great love can cross the bounds of fate.


He looked down at the book, the his fingers trembling. One page said 'Loss Of Substance potion' together with a brief description; flipping over, the subsequent few pages detailed the procedure. But something was definitely, undeniably wrong.

The Latin quote. The strange sensation wrecking havoc in his body. That— that feeling.

Then all of a sudden he knew, and frantic realisation splintered like glass shards through his mind: No. No, it can't be.

It wasn't a Loss Of Substance potion — he must have somehow mixed up the pages when he reattached the book — instead, he'd concocted a... a...

And at this moment, even swear words failed him, as the full impact of what he'd just inflicted upon himself rushed through him, howling like the icy desert wind...

"What have I done?" Draco asked in a horrified whisper; and he was too afraid of the answer.

2  Splintered

Love is a many splintered thing.

Harry woke up late the next morning, and was sufficiently distracted about last night's events while he rushed down for breakfast and raced off to class. Only when he stepped into the dungeons for double Potions with the Slytherins did the memory of last night come flooding back, as he saw Malfoy quietly enter and make his way to the other side of the classroom.

Harry's eyes narrowed as he watched Malfoy, but the blond head didn't once turn in his direction. It was as if nothing had happened, although Harry intuitively sensed that something had altered between them: a lack of the usual overt hostility, the absence of the familiar sneer that had become such a constant feature in Potions.

Something was definitely different.

As the end of the lesson approached, Ron nudged Harry when Snape's back was turned. "The entire lesson has almost gone by and Malfoy hasn't once tried to sabotage our potions or make a cauldron explode." Ron shot a sharp, suspicious glance across the classroom at Malfoy. "What's wrong with him?"

Harry was on the verge of telling Ron what happened the night before, but suspected that his friend might throw an apoplectic fit right then and there, so he decided against it. Maybe later.

Harry shrugged as nonchalantly as he could, and replied truthfully, "I don't know what's wrong with him."

"Well, we'd better not speak too soon," Ron said darkly. "The lesson's not over yet."

The shrill ringing of the bell a few minutes later concluded one of the strangest, most uneventful Potions class Harry could remember. His thoughts strayed to the memory of Malfoy kissing him last night, but he quickly caught himself. That was something he could do with not remembering for a long time. Preferably until after he was dead.

But why didn't he seem to be able to forget?

Across the classroom, Draco tidied away his books and cleaned up his cauldron, keeping his eyes averted all the time, feeling the weight of Harry's questioning gaze on him. He knew the Gryffindor had been sneaking furtive glances at him throughout the whole of Potions, but he hadn't dared to look up, cowardly as that seemed, simply because he wasn't sure what he might do if he had.

Draco found himself more attuned to Harry's emotions; he wondered if it was because of the potion, or that he just hadn't noticed before how outwardly Harry showed his feelings. Draco could feel the unresolved tension strung between them, the mild bewilderment in Harry's gaze each time it swept past him, bringing with it a strange fleeting warmth which stroked through his body.

And when Harry left the dungeons, accompanied by Weasley and Granger, Draco experienced that same feeling again; a muted longing, growing stronger and stronger as the other boy's footsteps faded away, tugging relentlessly at his heartstrings...

Draco slammed his fist into the table in frustration, knocking over a bottle of armadillo bile. He didn't care; he buried his face in the palms of his hands, which were now shaking, glazed with a sheen of cold sweat. It was still there, that— that feeling.

He tried to rid himself of it. Last night, the moment he'd discovered what potion he'd actually drunk, he'd spent almost an hour retching, forcing himself to throw up as much of the potion as possible.

But it was still there. In his blood, running like silver ice through his veins.

Angrily snatching his bag, Draco headed out of the classroom, ignoring Crabbe and Goyle's shouts to wait up for them.

* * * * * * *

Draco finally managed to corner Harry later that day, when the other boy headed out alone for Quidditch practice in the evening. Draco accosted Harry as he rounded the bend, walking toward the shed where all the brooms were kept.

Harry's initial surprise quickly faded to a look of grim recognition. "What do you want, Malfoy?"

Draco ignored the sudden rush of blood to his brain, and fixed his glare on Harry. "I need to talk to you." He glanced anxiously over his shoulder as distant voices floated around the corner, and added, "In private."

"What, so you can do unspeakably gross things to me again?" Harry asked coldly, stepping backwards and eyeing Draco suspiciously.

Draco clenched his fists, and a faint embarrassment coloured his cheeks. "I enjoyed it about as much as you did, Potter," he said through clenched teeth, anger fraying the edges of his voice.

"Really? I couldn't tell." Harry's voice was cool, even.

"Shut up, Potter," Draco snapped, and bit his lip hard, trying to focus his thoughts around the heated throbbing in his head, like the sound of crashing waves. "It was a bloody mistake." He meant every nuance of his words. A terrible, terrible mistake.

Harry gave him a sideways look. "And you're coming to apologise?"

"No." Draco answered automatically, and saw the expression in Harry's eyes harden.

"Well, you bloody should apologise." Harry drew himself up; he was about the same height as Draco, but his rising annoyance stiffened his body and made him look taller. "You had no right to do what you did, and—"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Draco cut in acidly, feeling his own rage simmering within him, "I should've asked your permission first. Complete oversight on my part. I'll bear that in mind next time around."

Harry's nostrils flared. "There will be no next time!" He looked incredulously at Draco. "What is wrong with you, Malfoy? Last time I checked, you hate me and I hate you, and I'm perfectly happy that it stays that way!"

They both stood glowering at each other for a long moment, neither of them saying anything, Harry tapping his foot impatiently on the ground. Finally,

"Well?"

Draco glared back. "Well, what?"

"Well, what was last night all about? Were you trying to scare me off? Because I distinctly remember you were the one who turned and fled with your tail between your legs."

Draco closed his eyes. He could have done without the mental image of anything between anyone's legs at this moment. The infuriating buzz in his head showed no sign of abating; instead it was getting more intense, as if sealing off the vicinity just surrounding the two of them with a charged electrical sphere that was severely upsetting his nerve impulses and sending the weirdest feelings twisting through his body.

Draco drew a deep breath. "It's a long story."

"No it isn't. You grabbed hold of me and kissed me. End of story, and not quite a fairytale ending, I might add."

Draco opened his eyes, immediately confronted with the deep emeralds shielded behind a pair of glasses, which made his breath catch in his throat, rendering him momentarily speechless.

What did he come here for, anyway? To confess the whole situation and make a complete fool of himself? He wouldn't understand, anyway. What did he expect Potter to do, when the truth was, there was nothing he could do, not him or anybody else? Why did he search him out, then, why did he spend most of the day just finding a time for them to be together in private?

He didn't know why. Actually, he did know, and he also knew that he had to get away from him as soon as possible.

"Oh, forget it." Draco muttered; helpless frustration shimmered in his grey eyes as he turned away, but suddenly a firm hand on his arm stopped him, not because of its restraining force but because of the sharp jolt of sensation that shot through his arm.

Draco reflexively flinched away from Harry's touch, stung, a fleeting wild look in his eyes of slate grey.

Harry's eyes flickered in brief surprise before a look of determination settled on his features. He stepped around Draco, blocking his path, cornering him against the side of the broom shed.

"You're not going anywhere until I get a straight answer from you, Malfoy." Harry's voice was soft, yet sliced with a veiled threatening tone.

Draco lifted a challenging gaze, masking his inner turmoil almost flawlessly. "Or else?" he taunted, arching an eyebrow.

"Do you really want an answer to that?"

"Yes, because it doesn't sound vaguely threatening in the least."

"Or else I'll go straight to Dumbledore with this—" Harry reached into his pocket, his hand coming up with the empty glass phial, "and you've have a nice audience for your explanation of what you were doing out last night."

Draco pressed his lips into a thin line, his eyes narrowing. "You wouldn't, because that'll mean that you'll have to explain what you were doing there as well." He smiled mirthlessly, allowing a healthy amount of sarcasm to drip from his words, "And I don't suppose our Golden Boy wants to have his record tarnished by something like that, now would he?"

"The worst I'll get is detention and a reprimand for sneaking out at night." Harry's eyes sparkled with a determined fixation, and it reminded Draco of the way Harry looked when he was racing after the Snitch; resolute, unwavering, almost ruthless. His smugness faltered slightly.

Harry cut Draco a sharp look, as if noticing his thoughts, then continued, "But you. You'll be lucky to get away with a detention if this gets out." Again, Harry held up the glass phial, the traces of red still vivid, like streaks of blood against golden sunlight. "I don't know what it is — looks like blood, but it isn't because it would've dried to black by now. I'm sure Snape'll have an interesting time doing some experiments to find out what it is, although his enthusiasm will probably be slightly subdued since the results would serve to incriminate his favourite student."

And from the look of genuine fear that flitted across Draco's face, a rare surge of emotion that flared and died within the flutter of a heartbeat, Harry knew that he'd got him.

Draco recovered from the flinch of tension very quickly, his usual iciness freezing back into place. He raised his chin defiantly, and sneered at Harry. "Go on then, Potter. Show it to Dumbledore. It might be strawberry jam, for all you know. I'll enjoy seeing you make a fool of yourself."

"I'll take that chance." Harry returned Draco's gaze evenly. "If I go down, I'll make sure you hit rock-bottom with me." He faced Draco squarely, watching the play of confusion simmering beneath the surface of Draco's face, ripples in the veneer of forced calm. "Your call, Malfoy."

"Just walk away, Potter," Draco hissed, and a genuine urgency found form in his voice. "You don't want to know, trust me."

"The hell I don't." Harry took a step closer, fire blazing in pure jade, and Draco closed his eyes almost in pain. "Try me, why don't you?"

"Fuck off, Potter—" Draco spat, and he saw Harry tensing, "I can handle this on my own."

"Handling it very well, I see, running around in the middle of the night half-naked kissing people like a deranged lunatic. Don't get me wrong, Malfoy, if you want to be a raving psycho it's fine with me, just don't get me involved."

"Then don't get involved." Draco enunciated each word clearly, his eyes burning with an uncommon flame. "Turn a hundred and eighty degrees, start walking, and don't stop until you reach Hogsmeade, or fall into the lake, whichever happens first. My point being, just go."

"Not until you tell me what the hell is going on." Harry refused to back down.

A pause, then very softly, "You don't want to know."

Harry exploded. "Don't you tell me what I want or do not want to know! You don't even—"

"Well you obviously can't see for yourself, can you?"

"Look," Harry said harshly, shoving Draco hard up against the wall. "If you had, say, tapped me on the shoulder, or tugged on my sleeve, I can let it go. But when you attach your mouth onto mine, entirely without my consent I might add, that's a completely different matter."

"What, never been kissed like that before, Potter?" Draco saw an almost imperceptible flicker cross Harry's clear green eyes, and his lips curled in a sneering smile. "Then I was doing you a favour, now wasn't I?"

Harry looked mildly revolted. "If you consider kissing me a favour, Malfoy, I never want to be in your debt."

Draco managed a sly grin, and the mounting tension between them eased slightly. "If you were in my debt, Potter, believe me, I'd make you do a lot more than that."

Harry now looked disgusted. "Oh shut up and stop begging the question, Malfoy. I'm waiting."

Draco's grin broadened. "For what? Another—"

"Your explanation," Harry hastily cut in, taking a step back and eyeing Draco with more than just suspicion. "What is the matter with you? Why are you so kissy-feely all of a sudden?"

Draco's smile faded; the hostility was instantly reinstated. "I am not kissy-feely," he snapped waspishly.

"Okay, then I think the description 'horny' would suffice." Harry smiled victoriously when he saw Draco's eyes darken, and continued, "So is that how you get some, Malfoy? Creeping around half-clad and pouncing on unsuspecting victims?"

"That's rich, coming from someone who hasn't even snogged before." Draco's eyes flashed with dawning rage. "And what about you, Potter? What were you doing out in the Forest?"

Just then, Draco abruptly realised that the annoying drone in his head had subsided, and he hadn't noticed it because he was so absorbed in talking to Harry. Then again, a part of his mind told him that it had subsided because he'd been talking to Harry, standing there less than two steps away from him for the past five minutes.

"That's not the issue at the moment, now is it?" Harry eyes flashed jade lightning as they caught the brilliant dusk sunlight. "Shell it out, Malfoy, I want to hear it."

Draco raised his eyes to Harry's, looking mutinous and despairing at the same time. "It's complicated."

"You've said that before, and it's a lame excuse. You're insulting my intellect."

"Sure took you long enough to figure that out," Draco retorted placidly. "All the more proves my point."

But he could feel his resolve dwindling, the edge of his cutting remarks getting blunter, more feeble, and all this while he was just stalling, as he tried to think of a way to explain this, and there was none. And suddenly he felt tired, like holding back a sneeze that was just aching to be let out, the pressure of a torrent of tears pressing against the back of his eyes, and it was wearing him thin.

Harry's mouth was set in a line of grim determination. "Talking to you is like trying to draw blood from a stone." He took a step back, shaking his head angrily. "Forget it, maybe Dumbledore will be able to get more helpful answers from you."

Harry made to turn away, but Draco reached out and caught him by his left wrist. He stopped and looked back at Draco, his green eyes cold, masked with complete calm, and said nothing, his gaze mutely questioning.

Draco felt the electric tingle of Harry's pulse fluttering in his wrist; he took a deep breath. "You really want to know?"

"Yes, I do." A long-suffering impatience edged Harry's words.

"When I said it's long and complicated, I really meant it." Draco's voice bore a note of urgency, and he looked around anxiously, worried that the other Gryffindor players would come looking for Harry. He wondered how long they'd been standing there talking; the truth was that he had no idea, because with Harry the minutes seemed to fly by like heartbeats, yet felt like hours on end.

Just like, he was reminded bitterly, the way people felt when they were— in love.

Casting another furtive glance around, Draco dropped his voice to a whisper. "Meet me in the trophy room, midnight. I'll explain then." He lifted his eyes, looking straight into Harry's, an uncertain emotion darting in his irises of misty grey. "And from now until then, think about everything you don't want to know, and don't say I didn't warn you about this, Potter. Ten Galleons say you'll regret ever asking, so if you come to your senses before then, do yourself a favour and just don't turn up."

"Nice try, Malfoy." Harry stepped back, surveying Draco's expression with a critical look. "Very scary and all, except that it's about the oldest trick in the book and entirely unconvincing in your case. Since when do you care what's good for me?" Harry gave a scornful laugh; then completely without warning, he raised his wand, pointed it at Malfoy's hand, which was still holding on to his own wrist, and muttered a spell,

"Manicam inice."

A jet of dark rusty silver light shot from Harry's wand; Draco let out a startled yelp and withdrew his hand, stung. He glanced down — to his horror, he found attached to his wrist, a handcuff.

Draco stared in disbelief. There was just one cuff, securely locked, the thin metal band encircling his left wrist, a few dull metal links trailing after it.

Harry looked crestfallen. "Damn. Only half-worked."

"What the..." Draco looked up at him, dismayed. "What the fuck is this for? Get it off me!"

Harry gave him an angelic smile. "Sure. Tonight. That's the collateral, to make sure you turn up." He snatched up Draco's wrist, inspecting his handiwork; too shocked to resist, Draco let him. "Well only one cuff worked, but it looks secure enough. Let me just warn you that any attempt to remove it physically or magically will only make it tighten more and more."

"You expect me to walk around school with this?" Draco still looked aghast. "Very kinky, Potter, didn't know you were into bondage and such."

Harry ignored Draco's last statement. "Just be glad the other end isn't attached to, oh I don't know... the Quidditch goal-posts, for example. That's decidedly more conspicuous, I must say."

"Fuck you, Potter," Draco spat, anger flooding in to replace astonishment. "I'll get you for this."

"That lacks a certain viciousness, when you're the one with the handcuff on." Harry stepped aside easily, a smile of triumph curling his lips in a not entirely unattractive way, in Draco's opinion. "And you thought that Gryffindors didn't have creative ideas."

"Oh, Slytherins have creative ideas too," Draco said through clenched teeth, his voice thinly controlled. "Only more violent and expressive ones, usually involving knives, whips, torture and generally a lot of pain." Draco's mouth turned upward in a cynical, humourless smile. "But I see you're going for the flat-out humiliation technique, which is on the whole rather effective too. Congratulations."

Something flickered across Harry's face; muted surprise, mingled with a certain contriteness, and Draco thought that he looked almost abashed. "I'm not doing this to humiliate you, Malfoy," Harry raised his eyes to meet Draco's; they were completely clear, almost heartbreakingly sincere. "I'm just making sure you don't renege on your deal."

"I thought the point in question was whether you'd be there."

Harry's eyes hardened, the restless emotion within them coalescing into solid stones of emerald. "I don't trust you, Malfoy. Don't think I don't remember what you tried to do to us in the first year. And since then my fingers and toes and your fingers and toes won't be enough to count the number of times you've tried to get us into trouble." A grim, yet distinctly smug grin. "And failed each time, I might add."

Draco frowned, tilting his head slightly, giving Harry an appraising sort of look. He'd been surreptitiously doing this a lot during their conversation, as if noticing certain things about Harry for the first time; the way he stood, his left foot always an inch or two in front of his right. The way he held his shoulders straight, upright, belying a confidence and quiet poise of someone who had the world at his beckoning, who couldn't want more than he'd already got.

"And you think a cuff around my wrist will ensure I'll be there tonight?" Draco managed to restore a certain forced tranquillity to his voice, although everything was steadily crumbling to bits under the surface. "I think not, Potter. The only thing that'll guarantee my presence there is if you chain me to yourself, and that doesn't lend itself too well to Quidditch practice, does it?"

To Draco's surprise, Harry's face eased into a smile; a simple, knowing smile. "Take a closer look at your new accessory when you get the chance." He nodded toward the cuff; it looked coldly incongruous on Draco's wrist, although the metallic silver well matched his platinum blond hair.

Before Draco had the chance to inspect his cuff in greater detail, Harry continued, "I don't think the cuff will make you turn up. I don't take your word for it, either. But," and here Harry allowed a small victorious grin, "maybe a cuff bearing my name will make you think twice about skipping our appointment tonight."

Draco's heart stopped momentarily, and his gaze cut down at the cruel metal bracelet that shackled his wrist, his eyes widening in a dizzying rush of utter disbelief. What—

Harry's grin broadened, a dawning smile in the setting sun. "I don't think you'll fancy walking around school tomorrow labelled as property of Harry Potter, now would you?"

And at that moment something shattered in Draco's face; something fundamental, something so natural and innate that it sieved through all spectrum of emotion, a foundation that splintered and fell apart at the crash of Harry's words. A stab of anguish flashed like lightning across Draco's features, rendered delicate in the wake of hopeless pain, shadowed in helpless despair, although in the blink of an eye it was wiped blank, like troubled circles in the sand washed away by the mockery of the merciless sea.

Harry was startled when he saw the raw emotion break across Draco's impassive face — he blinked, and looked again, but it was gone, like a wound closing in on itself; a trick of the eyes, a play of the slanted golden light which threaded tinselled silk into Draco's hair of blond.

Or perhaps, Harry thought, just a deception of the mind.

When Draco looked up, his eyes empty shadows of crushed grey. Harry noticed that his hands had clenched themselves into fists, so tightly that his knuckles were white-tipped.

Draco said nothing, just stared hard at Harry for a prolonged moment, and gradually the cold flame of emotion flowed back into his eyes, burning distant iciness and vulnerable pain at the same time.

"Have it your way, Potter." Draco said softly, although resentment edged his voice like a blade, his eyes glinting hatred and bitterness sliced with raw pain.

With that, Draco turned and walked away.

Harry stared after him for a few moments, still very suspicious and utterly confused. That parting look Draco shot him still jarred him as particularly unsettling — was it something he had said?

With a baffled shake of his head, Harry gave up wondering and headed off to get his broom, which he only just remembered was his original intention. Thanks to Malfoy, he was now criminally late for Quidditch practice, and that thought jostled to the fore of Harry's mind as he relegated his other questions to later that night.

* * * * * * *

Only when he reached the sanctuary of his own dormitory did Draco allow himself to collapse on his bed, drawing painful air in rasping breaths, the dull coolness of the cuff against his wrist seeping through his skin like mercury poisoning his blood, hot and cold separated by the imperfection of flesh.

It was just like the boundary he was trapped in now, the frontier where love and hate collided, the fine line now blurred by chemical alteration into absolutely nothing at all. Nothing but the weary tension knotted in his body, distilled desire burned down to its sheer essence, and it was becoming something entirely out of his control, not his own anymore.

He turned the cuff over, and looked at it, metal glinting bright sparks from an indiscernible light source; it stung his eyes, and he blinked. Holding his wrist up for closer inspection, Draco saw the intricate inscription, not engraved by human hand, a finely crafted mockery set in smooth silver — H J Potter.

The mark of possession. Branded. Owned.

Draco closed his eyes, soaking up the silent shame.

I don't think you'll fancy walking around school tomorrow labelled as property of Harry Potter, now would you?

Harry's words echoed soundlessly in Draco's mind, his own mortification corroding from within.

I'm not doing this to humiliate you, Malfoy.

Utterly humiliated, Draco flung himself face-down on the pillows, the cold metal grip of the cuff around his wrist digging into his flesh, fear and blinding terror unleashed within him, a stark reminder of what was almost too real to be believable; what he had inflicted upon himself, what Harry had done to him, and what he might never be freed of.

3  No Regrets

Love lives in sealed bottles of regret.

Much to his annoyance, Draco found that getting some solitude in the Slytherin common room or even his own dormitory was about as possible as finding a way not to think of Harry as the evening drearily wore by. It was getting increasingly hard to keep his shackled wrist concealed from the others, so Draco finally decided to go to the library for some peace and quiet.

It was almost eight in the evening when Draco stepped into the library; a sense of unfamiliarity washed over him as he glanced up at the four walls that closed in around him, his innate claustrophobia rising to the fore. He realised that he was about as at home in the library as a live flower crab sitting on a barbeque grill while tendrils of heat rose around it. That was his instinctive feeling — trapped.

The Hogwarts library, however quaint and impeccably furnished, still reminded him too starkly of his father's library, back home; the entire drawing room, filled with nothing but book cases stacked to the ceiling with shelves upon shelves of books, all of them related, in one way or another, to the Dark Arts. So much a part of their life, the life of a Malfoy. So much a part of him.

Draco remembered with no small shudder the explicit warnings his father had constantly issued to him, of the many different ways to languish in disgrace and of course, the sinister admonition never, as long as he drew a living breath with Malfoy blood running through his veins, to bring even the slightest reproach upon the family name. Or else.

Or else. It wasn't even a discreet implication, or something to be left to merciful imagination. It was definite, predetermined, a verdict passed in advance of transgression. No room for negotiation, for clemency, much less for forgiveness.

But this. Draco privately thought even his father would find it difficult to grade this level of sheer degradation he'd wreaked on the precious family name. If Lucius ever found out about this matter before he could find a way to reverse it, Draco fervently hoped the shock would finish his father off, because in the likely chance it didn't, he would probably have to implement Plan B, which was, very simply, the path of noble suicide.

This very sobering and maniacally depressing thought spurred him to action, and Draco resolutely strode toward the shelves on the far right, where to his knowledge the more advanced magic books were housed. But anything remotely useful to his problem would probably be found only in the Restricted Section, and even as Draco neared it, an irate Madam Pince came bustling up to him, demanding to see a signed note permitting him access to the books. Of course, Draco didn't have a signed note, although at that moment he would have very gladly given Madam Pince a note of his own variety, which would be brief, to-the-point, and very vulgar.

Giving up, Draco stalked out of the library. Books wouldn't help — he would just have to find his own way of explaining to Harry what happened, and an even more ingenious way to get out of this whole mess altogether.

Why was he even bothering to explain this to Harry anyway? Draco wondered. He wouldn't understand. Harry couldn't possibly, not even him, the Boy Who Made A Habit Of Frustrating Voldemort's Plans. This was a completely different struggle altogether, in many ways more sinister than facing the Dark Lord, because it was a conflict of the mind with the heart, a self-destructive fight against himself that was doomed whichever side won the battle.

No. He didn't want, didn't need Harry's help. All he asked of Harry was to stay away from him, far away from any more lip-locking skirmishes, so that Draco could figure out how to fix this, reverse the spell, and reclaim himself again.

* * * * * * *

His meeting with Malfoy lurked constantly on the fringes of his mind that night, and Harry subconsciously found himself glad as Quidditch practice drew to a close. Returning his broomstick to the shed (and noticing the patches of trampled grass lit by the bright moonlight, marking the spot of their confrontation earlier in the evening), Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower, showered and changed, then settled down to wait for midnight to arrive.

Harry wondered if Malfoy would stand him up — a confident smile curled the edges of his lips as he remembered the handy little cuff that Malfoy would very likely want him to remove before he saw the daylight of tomorrow. That raised the chances of Malfoy showing up by quite a margin; Harry decided it was safe enough to venture out without worrying if Filch would be waiting for him to show up instead of Draco.

At ten to midnight, Harry silently got to his feet and slipped on a set of robes, again feeling the painful absence of his Invisibility Cloak. As he trod noiselessly to the door, Harry hesitated; it hadn't occurred to him to ask Ron along on his midnight expedition, for the very simple reason that he would have to let Ron in on what happened between him and Malfoy the night before (the not-so-accidental collision of their lips, to be precise), and he wasn't exactly bursting with excitement to recount that incident, at least not out loud. Although, Harry had found himself replaying the episode over again in his mind a few times during the day — that in itself, he noted with agitation, was very unsettling.

His soundless footsteps made their way to the trophy room, and he hid in the protection of elongated shadows, under the darkened cover of the waves of black night streaming into the corridors. Harry found his pulse quicken with anticipation as he neared the door of the trophy room, as laid his hand on the doorknob — If Malfoy isn't there, Harry thought grimly, I'll make sure he—

Harry pushed the door open, and saw Draco sitting on the edge of the grand polished oak table positioned in the middle of the room, his hands resting on his lap, fingers steepled, his head slightly bowed. The room was suffused in a dim cerulean glow, radiating from a small conjured fire placed at a strategic angle such that it cast its blue light across the expanse of the enclosed room, from one corner almost reaching to the other. It was a mellow, soothing sort of illumination, and Harry's eyes quickly adjusted to the pale, almost surreal atmosphere.

Draco's head snapped up the moment Harry entered; his body seemed to tense, then consciously force itself to relax, although not successfully. He wore the expression of a trapped panther pacing its cage in the wild night, and his eyes betrayed a wary uncertainty as he watched Harry slip quietly into the room and close the door behind him.

Harry wasn't surprised to find Draco there; what did surprise him was the transient despair that flitted across Draco's features, as if he was— disappointed that Harry had come. The question of what was going on burned even stronger inside him.

Harry crossed the room in a few steps, drawing to a halt in front of Draco.

"So?" was Harry's short greeting, complemented by a hard, distrusting stare. "What's the big secret?"

"I didn't think you'd come." Draco said neutrally, although his usual unruffled manner rang slightly hollow.

"Wouldn't miss this for the world, Malfoy." Harry continued to watch Draco with cautious guardedness, and nodded curtly in the direction of Draco's left forearm. "Anyway, I didn't think you'd want to walk around school tomorrow with that handcuff, would you?"

"I didn't think you'd care." Draco's eyes were tinted almost cobalt from the conjured blue flame as they flickered up to meet Harry's. "I thought you'd not come for this precise reason, actually, so that I'd have to walk around school tomorrow with this ghastly thing on me."

Harry looked mildly outraged. "You think I'd intentionally leave that on you, just to— to shame you?" Harry seemed to have difficulty wrapping his mind around that insinuation. "Don't get me wrong, Malfoy, your ego's way too big for what you're really worth, and someone should pound that into you one day — but humility and humiliation are completely different things."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't patronize me, Potter."

Harry looked sharply at him. "You mean if it were the other way around, you'd leave the cuff on just to humiliate me?"

Draco didn't answer, just dropped his gaze.

Harry's expression changed to one of disgust. "I can't believe it." He shook his head angrily. "That's just like you, Malfoy."

Draco didn't answer; he just lifted his hand, the single cuff sliding halfway down his wrist, and held it steadily in front of Harry. Shades of metallic blue reflected off the cuff in a sharp dazzle, and Draco raised his chin almost defiantly, his eyes asking a silent question, and waited.

Harry didn't move for a moment, and just looked down at Draco's proffered hand. Then he sighed crossly, took out his wand, and tapped it lightly against the cuff, muttering "Clavis Finge."

The cuff neatly detached itself at an invisible joint, and hung loosened on Draco's wrist, sliding a few inches down his forearm.

Draco looked at Harry, his eyes glinting like tarnished jewels; then without a word, he slid the cuff off his hand and slipped it into his pocket. He eased off the table onto his feet and turned, walking a few steps away and standing facing the wall.

Harry was increasingly convinced that Draco was going quite mad indeed; he actually hesitated briefly, before asking, his tone belying his suspicion, "So what is it you wanted to tell me?"

"I didn't want to tell you. You wanted to know."

Harry felt his patience start to fray — in fact, it was already in shreds. "Spit it out, Malfoy. I haven't got all night."

"All right." Draco still didn't turn around, and spoke toward the wall. "Do you want the epic version of it, or just the gist?"

"Whatever. I just want to hear it — now."

Draco took a deep breath; this was hard, harder than he thought it would be. Why? Why did he even feel as if he was obliged to tell Harry about the spell, just because he asked? Draco usually took much pleasure in denying Harry the exact thing he wanted most.

But he knew why. It was because he didn't think he could keep it within himself for much longer. Because it was tearing him up inside, knowing what happened, yet not knowing what to do. And he needed to tell someone.

"Well..." Draco started slowly, feeling at a rare loss for words, suddenly not knowing where to begin; he didn't want to turn around, to look into Harry's eyes as he talked. "Basically, I was trying to make something, but it messed up royally and turned out to be something else, and—"

"There seems to be much vagueness and ambiguity," Harry interrupted sharply. "Am I supposed to fill in the blanks?"

Draco whirled around, his eyes flashing anger and muted pain. "Just shut up and listen, Potter," he snarled, no humour in his voice.

Harry glared back. "Then get to the point."

"Fine." Draco snapped, his endurance wearing thin, and the words spilled from his lips like a long-suffered secret, raw and truthful and twisted with bitterness. "The point is that, I'm in love with you. That's essentially all you need to know."

Draco's words were met with a long silence, the shock and disbelief almost palpable in the tension between them. It was like time had been spun backwards, and the moment seemed to be suspended endlessly as the meaning of Draco's words sank in, flowing like iced water over impermeable rock. The hiss of the flickering flame was the only sound in the room, echoing like the crack of a whip in the taut silence.

When Harry finally spoke up, his voice was still faint with surprise.

"You're joking, right." It wasn't even a question, more of a statement; as if the idea was far too impossible to even be contemplated as truth.

Draco looked enraged and mildly pained at the same time. "Would I joke about something like this?"

Draco's voice bore an earnest seriousness that, in Harry's opinion, sounded as incongruous as the entire situation right now, and Harry was beginning to feel like he was grasping on the fringes of a waking dream, ethereal and utterly, utterly unbelievable.

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. You have a warped sense of humour."

"Well yes, I mean tormenting Longbottom and making his cauldron blow up is laugh-your-ass-off funny and all," Draco gritted his teeth, trying to keep calm, "but being— being in love with you isn't remotely amusing in the least. In fact, I think the whole idea of it is traumatising enough to grant me license to become a full-fledged psychopath in later life. If I even make it there, that is."

"You— you love me?" Harry echoed, his voice ringing hollow, his expression as if he'd just swallowed something distinctly unpleasant and vaguely nausea-inducing, like a whole jar of Cockroach Clusters.

"No, Potter, I am in love with you." Draco's voice was sharp as a blade. "I did not fall in love with you, that being an even less attractive option than falling off a cliff, and I certainly don't love you. There's a vast and crucial difference there."

"Can't really see it, actually." The note of suspicion returned to Harry's voice. "Look, I don't believe this. Is this some kind of joke? What are you trying to say, exactly?"

"Have you even been listening to me?" Draco was exasperated. "Because I get the feeling that the echoes off the wall are giving me a more intelligent response."

"Of course I heard you." Harry sounded irritated. "But what you're saying is coming through as pure gibberish." He eyed Draco critically, as if he was a time bomb about to go off. "Are you sure you're not on drugs, Malfoy? Because you're hyperventilating and your eyes are dilated, kind of like Hedwig when she had a bad case of diarrhoea."

"Thanks for the descriptive imagery and the concern, and I wish this whole thing is just a horrible hangover, but no, I'm not on drugs." Draco paused. "Although I wouldn't say no to some now, if you've got any."

Harry looked dubious, and still sounded very sceptical. "But you— you hate me."

"Well spotted, Potter. I always thought I might have been too subtle before. Real sharp of you to notice, ten points to Gryffindor for a rare display of brain waves."

"Shut up, Malfoy. And just so you know, I can't stand you either."

"Glad we've got that straightened out." Draco tilted his head slightly; strangely enough, getting warmed up with his usual activity of insulting Harry had almost taken his mind off the fact that he was actually harbouring a dangerous, volatile lust for him. But the sensation was still there, like live undercurrents fed under his skin. "You know something interesting about you, Potter? You positively run screaming when I kiss you, but you're perfectly calm when I tell you that I'm possibly in love with you."

"I'm sort of saving up the full impact of shock so I can wake the whole of Hogwarts when the horror of it finally breaks — which will be any time now, actually, so you'd better hurry up talking."

"There's nothing else to talk about." Draco gave Harry a sidelong look, and just then a surge of the familiar electricity sizzled through him, like the intoxication of wine; he leaned back against the edge of the table for support, and said blandly, "I think you should leave."

"Nothing else?" Harry looked incredulous. "The hell there isn't! For starters, you haven't told me why you're in love with me in the first place." He pondered for a moment, then continued, "I'm guessing a love spell of some sort, because if it isn't, then a place for you at St Mungo's is pretty much guaranteed."

Draco wanted to shoot back a retort about how probably only the residents of St Mungo's Criminal Insanity wing would ever fall in love with Harry, but realised that would include him too; and all of a sudden, he felt so— tired, as if his energy was being drained by being with Harry. And from past experience, this weariness was always closely chased by an entirely different kind of energy — desire.

Draco's shoulders sagged, and he relented. "You're right," he said, his voice sounding defeated. "It's a love potion."

"Love potion?" Harry repeated, his voice a mix of shock and curiosity. "Aren't they illegal?"

"If you're going to give me a moralistic rant on abiding by the statutes of wizarding law, spare me, because I feel ill enough as it is."

Harry still didn't look convinced. "What happened, exactly?" He eyed Draco critically. "If you're making this up, just to let you know, it's very implausible. If you're not making it up, well, then you have a lot of explaining to do. And I'm warning you, Malfoy, if you're trying to pull a fast one on me—"

"Oh, just shut up and let me talk for a bit, will you?" Draco snapped, glaring at Harry.

To his surprise, Harry fell silent, and an expectant silence hung between them.

Draco sighed, but there was no turning back now, and the truth was, he actually wanted to tell Harry what happened — at this moment, anyone would have served as satisfactory audience, even Mrs Norris. It felt like holding a breathful of air for too long, and all he wanted to do was to be able to breathe properly again, without the agitated flutter of his heartbeat pounding in his chest.

Draco caught Harry's impatient gaze, and took a deep breath. Something told him that he was going to need all the oxygen he could muster. "All right. Here's what happened."

Draco launched into his narrative of last night's events, albeit haltingly. He didn't say half the things he thought — the story was reduced to passing snatches of the monologue of words that rushed through his mind, and he voiced only the necessary bits to string together the chronology of events.

He talked briefly about the potion, glossing over the finer details to the part where he was just about to drink it. He related how it had turned out to be a love potion, and before he even learned that, how the first person he saw after he swallowed it was Harry.

To his credit, Harry was a good listener — he actually remained quiet while Draco talked in low, urgent tones, the words falling from his lips like a summer rain. Harry still wore a sceptical expression on his face, but at the same time he was listening very carefully to Draco's words, observing his body language, weighing the grain of truth on the scales of probability that, for once in his lifetime and probably all prior and subsequent ones, Draco Malfoy was telling him the truth.

When Draco stopped briefly to catch his breath, Harry finally interrupted.

"What potion were you originally trying to concoct?" he asked, not taking his eyes off Draco. "Don't tell me you actually intended the love potion from the start."

"What does the phrase 'spell gone wrong' sound like to you?" Draco retorted peevishly. "Of course I didn't intend to make the love potion — don't be daft, Potter, honestly." He let out a derisive snort.

"Well, then what were you trying to make?" Harry pressed, refusing to let it go.

"A Loss Of Substance potion." Draco muttered reluctantly, as if he'd just been forced to divulge a very embarrassing secret. "It makes you... well, disappear."

"What?" Harry stared at Draco incredulously, an appalled look filtering onto his face. "Loss of substance? Where, Malfoy, here?" He angrily tapped a finger to his temple. "What were you thinking!?"

"I don't know!" Draco burst out, jagged emotion gleaming through the cracks in his voice. "You don't think I haven't thought about that? What I was thinking? Hell, ever since last night I've been doing nothing but think, about how stupid I could've possibly been to mix the spell up, how bloody unlucky I am that the two spells are only a page apart, and how the fuck am I supposed to get myself out of this!!"

Harry blinked, taken aback by Draco's sudden outburst, almost feeling guilty for his provocation. He sobered considerably; something about the way Draco looked and sounded jarred him immensely, making him think twice about what Malfoy was actually saying, what he was trying to tell him.

Harry looked at Draco again, harder this time, noticing the veiled pain threaded in his delicate features, a certain wretchedness that silently accented the seriousness of the situation.

He wondered why he was even believing what Draco said. Since when did Malfoy ever speak truth to him? What if this was all some elaborate trap to... well, he couldn't quite tell what machinations this could possibly be a part of, but he was sure it wouldn't be at all pleasant. So why was he even inclined to believe Malfoy?

His eyes. Harry looked at Malfoy again, a long, calculated sort of gaze. In his eyes.

And Harry also noticed that Draco had very pretty eyes, intense and full of feeling, although too often glazed over with cold arrogance and scornful disdain. But at rare times like now, they were innocent and painfully truthful, and beautiful, jewels of deepening grey lined with silver in the ice-blue light.

Oh, stop it. This is Malfoy. Stop gazing into his eyes.

"Well..." Harry shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts, "Why are you telling me this?"

Draco's eyes narrowed, his lips parting in indignant amazement. "I distinctly recall that you asked. In fact, you didn't just ask, you badgered me tirelessly and put me in handcuffs just to force me to tell you. And now you say, 'Why are you telling me this?'"

Harry glared. "I mean, what do you expect me to do about this?"

"Nothing." Draco answered shortly, looking away, turning his eyes though not his attention to the pale blue flame that alternately wavered and glowed. His voice was dull. "There's nothing you can do."

"Well, is there a counterspell? A way to reverse it?"

"I don't know."

"Will it wear off, after a while? Or can you take an antidote or something, to neutralise the effect?"

A shrug. "I don't know."

Harry looked irritated. "You seem awfully uninterested in getting yourself out of this mess, Malfoy. The ignorance really isn't helping. Do you think refusing to find out more about this love spell will make it go away?"

Draco's eyes slanted sharply back in Harry's direction; they burned with a fervent intensity, almost heartbreakingly desperate. "You don't know how much I want this thing to be off me, Potter." His voice seemed to quiver with faltering control. "So just shut up and get lost."

Harry's jaw dropped; he clearly wasn't expecting the abrupt hostility, and his emerald eyes darkened with dawning anger. "I'm just trying to help, you ungrateful git. This is your problem, incidentally."

Draco held his gaze evenly, his eyes masked with absent emotion. "You're right, Potter. This is my problem. And I don't need your help. It's none of your business."

"It is my business, Malfoy, because you so happen to have picked me to fall in love with." Harry took a step forward, a grim determination in his eyes.

"Picked you, Potter? Picked?" Draco looked disgusted. "Would I, in any frame of mind sound or otherwise, pick you to be in love with? Would I?" He closed his eyes, his shoulders hunching, and covered his face with his hands. "This is officially the worst disaster in the magical world. Years from now they'll be teaching this as a case study of 'Spells Gone Wrong Resulting In Fates Worse Than Death', and they'll have the powdered remains of my skull as authentic artefacts."

Harry bit his lip, stifling a smile. Even given the situation, Malfoy's distraught humour was rather funny—

"It's not funny, Potter," Draco snapped waspishly. "Wipe that smile off your face before I make it disappear forever — magically or otherwise."

Harry's smile vanished, and his mouth hardened into a line. "Don't blame me for this happening, Malfoy. This whole fix isn't even remotely my fault."

"Of course it's your fault. If you weren't around this would've never happened."

"Now I'm faulted for existing?" Harry blinked, annoyance flooding in. "You're just being unreasonable, Malfoy, and—"

"Of course I'm being unreasonable," Draco cut in sharply, his grey eyes glinting with vivid flashes of anger and frustration. "I'm in love with you, for starters. That pretty much goes against all laws of reason, completely blows the roof of irrationality, and catapults right out of the galaxy of insanity." Draco paused, and took a breath. "And it is entirely your fault."

Harry was about to snap back a retort, but then Draco did something that made the harsh words melt unspoken on his tongue.

With a half-glance at Harry, Draco quietly turned away and walked over to the opposite wall of the room. He braced one arm against the wall, and rested his forehead in the crook of his elbow; something about Draco's posture stripped him of his usual arrogance, painting a forlorn, defeated silhouette against the flickering blue illumination.

Harry was almost as surprised as if Draco had kissed him again. He stood for a moment, unsure of what to do; he realised how much he actually relied on Draco's provocations most of the time to keep him talking. And for all the times he fumed when Draco got the better of him, for the unfulfilled anger each time Draco managed to outwit him during their verbal sparring, this was the perfect opportunity to get back at him, right now when he was vulnerable, his defences down.

But Harry just couldn't do such a thing, not even to Malfoy. He couldn't do it when they duelled in their second year, when he held back from hexing Malfoy when he had fallen, though Malfoy had no qualms about breaching the ethics of good sportsmanship and striking him. And now he still couldn't bring himself to say something hurtful, or even just sarcastic.

Harry furrowed his brow and bit his lip, not knowing what to say or do, and just stood there, feeling awkward.

"You should go." Draco finally spoke, his voice drained with a weariness not entirely physical. "It's late."

Harry hesitated, and glanced at his bare wrist. "I can stay for a bit."

"I don't want you to stay." Draco's voice was chillingly quiet. "In fact, I want you to stay out of this, and stay away from me, which really won't be too hard for you will it? That's all I want."

"And do you think it's that easy?" Harry asked, though without rancour.

"Staying away from me? You seem to have cultivated an admirable dislike for me over the years, Potter, I'm sure you can draw on that." Draco was still leaning face-forward against the wall, and his voice was slightly muffled.

"No, I mean this. Do you think just walking away is the solution?"

"It's the solution for you." Draco finally lifted his head off his arm, and very slowly turned around, leaning his back against the wall, as if every part of his body was aching with exhaustion. "And that's all you should be concerned with."

Harry took a deep breath. "There must be a way to reverse it."

"And how if there isn't?" Draco exploded, the suppressed aggravation and pain bursting to the surface, spitting angry sparks in his eyes now warmed with anguish. "Not everything has a counterspell! And this is— this is different from other spells, because it's not external, it's inside me, in my blood. I haven't read up much yet, but I know about these kind of curses, and most of them are incurable except by death."

The last word hung significantly in the air, ominous, the possible eventuality suddenly bringing home the gravity of the situation. They both remained quiet for a while, the immense pain twisted up in Draco's words bleeding into the atmosphere, making the air dense with a sinking sort of feeling.

Finally, Harry spoke quietly. "This is a curse?"

Draco gave him a pointed look. "What else would you call it?"

Harry actually gave this thought. "I don't know. I just didn't think it'd be classified as a curse. I mean, love and curses aren't usually related."

"It isn't love, Potter, it's a love spell. It thrives on unrequited love, and drives you absolutely crazy because you find yourself longing for something you know you don't want, and can never get. People routinely go insane under the effect of love spells. If this isn't a curse, then Avada Kedavra's a nursery rhyme."

Harry wanted to tell Draco not to be so melodramatic, but something in him feared it wasn't such an exaggeration of the truth after all.

Harry sighed. "So what you suggest we do about it?"

"I told you. We're not going to do anything. I'm going fix it, and you will do absolutely nothing." A pained look flitted across Draco's features, cast in pale shades of fatigue and exasperation. "How many times do I have to tell you, Potter? I don't want your help. This isn't your problem, and as much as I know you enjoy sticking your nose in trouble and sniffing a high on it, the situation is messed up enough without you meddling any further."

"And you think you can handle this on your own?" Harry answered angrily. "Just look at what you've done about it so far! A grand total of nothing! You don't even know for sure there's no counterspell" He glared crossly at Draco. "You may not think I care, Malfoy, and frankly maybe I don't, but this is serious and I'm not going to let you get yourself in more trouble than you're already in."

Draco's eyes betrayed nothing except for an unnamed emotion that shimmered through liquid grey. When he spoke again, his voice was level, toneless. "You really want to help, Potter?"

Harry drew a controlled breath, not answering, his silence speaking his consent, although he couldn't bring himself to say it. Malfoy was getting on his nerves, and Harry had to strive to remain calm, reminding himself over and over again that Draco was excusably in a rather unstable state of mind.

In response, Harry bowed his head slightly, then looked squarely up at Draco again; a silent nod.

Draco stood staring at him for a moment, his head slightly tilted to one side, his expression almost contemplating, as if considering Harry's offer; a still silence once again reigned between them.

A faint smile finally found its way to Draco's lips; bitter, yet extremely sad. Gracefully nudging himself away from the wall, Draco resolutely strode over to the door and opened it, gesturing the way out with a facile wave of his hand.

"Then start helping." Defiance flashed in his eyes, streaked with unmistakable pain.

Harry stared at him for a moment, shocked; then rage flooded in and swept away tentative sympathy.

"Fine!" Harry's anger finally peaked, and he couldn't take anymore: he had his own dignity, dammit! He stalked right past Draco, out through the open door into the darkened corridors outside, then turned and looked back at Malfoy. "You're on your own now, Malfoy. Figure this out by yourself — I don't give a damn anymore."

Without another glance, Harry walked away, and left Draco standing in the shrouded night, which mirrored perfectly the darkness within his soul.

4 Indifference

The opposite of love is not hate; it's indifference.

Draco managed to find some time to himself in the library after sending Crabbe and Goyle off to the kitchens to steal food and terrorise the house-elves. He seemed to be doing a lot of this lately — avoiding his fellow Slytherins, spending time in solitude, finding a certain woeful solace in being alone, even though nothing extinguished the feeling of being hopelessly incomplete.

It didn't help that he hadn't been sleeping properly — Draco hadn't had a decent slumber in the past few nights, specifically ever since that night in the Forbidden Forest. He'd either lain sleepless asking himself for the millionth time how he could ever have messed up so badly, or stayed awake thinking of Harry. Either option was proving highly detrimental to his mental well-being.

Draco unhappily pored over the thick book laid open in front of him, the musty smell of the aged parchment making him feel slightly nauseous. Spellbooks all had a characteristic, archaic pungency to them, and it recalled to his mind the chilly memory of his father's own library, shrouded in dark secrecy, where he'd baited danger one time too often, where it all began, with that damned book.

Draco had learned to live his life never acknowledging his mistakes.

But when the mistake tormented you every waking second and sleeping moment, when it threatened to tip the scales of your sanity as everything you had so carefully framed around yourself came crashing down around the singular, aching knowledge that it was all your own fault, it was hard not to admit you were wrong.

It had been two days since he spoke with Harry, since he told Harry to stay away from him, and to his credit, Harry had actually complied, and hadn't so much as approached Draco in the past couple of days. Although physical distance did absolutely nothing to ease this mental isolation.

He'd been spending an inordinate amount of time in the past days thinking about Harry. Thinking, not in the real sense of the word; it was more of a hollow contemplation, devoid of feeling, a very detached kind of emotion. It was as if his mind was filled with nothing but images of Harry — how he looked, the colour of his eyes, his raven-black hair, his boyish smile — but Draco was unable to wrap his consciousness around these fleeting images, to give them depth and reality.

But of course, the intangible memories promptly coalesced and formed when Harry walked into the library, accompanied by Ron and Hermione.

Draco drew a sharp breath, his intake of air catching in his throat; Harry saw him too, and stiffened, his footsteps faltering briefly, causing Ron to bump against his back.

"What is it, Harry?" Ron asked curiously, sounding puzzled.

Harry's calm gaze rested on Malfoy for a moment that seemed to freeze in time as the tension crystallised between them, icicles that ran blue and silver from the recent days of their hostile truce. Harry couldn't see Draco's hands, clenched into fists under the table; then the instant melted by, felt and forgotten, and Harry averted his eyes and moved toward another table at the far end of the library, away from where Draco was sitting.

In response to Ron's question, Harry casually shook his head. "Nothing," he offered over his shoulder, "I almost forgot something, that's all."

In the past two days, distracted by Quidditch practice and a pile-up of homework, Harry had almost consciously forgotten about Malfoy and his bizarre love potion problem. It had been relegated to the back of his mind, only demonstrated by his almost natural avoidance of Malfoy in the hallways and during lessons — not that Malfoy had made that hard for him to do.

Harry wondered again if Malfoy was just trying to wind him up, if this was all just a stupid fabrication to get him all worked up about nothing. But the faint flicker of emotion in Malfoy's eyes when their gazes had crossed was too stark to be forged, and too real to go unnoticed.

Harry turned around, glancing back at Malfoy's table — but it was empty. Draco was gone.

Harry felt a twinge of guilt, a stir of responsibility within him — but then he remembered Draco's words, still freshly etched in his memory, and sliced with bitterness and hatred: Stay away from me. I don't want your help.

Fine, then. An absent resentment simmered to life, and Harry resolutely pushed all thoughts of Malfoy out his mind, Malfoy and his ridiculous love potions and general dose of sheer madness. Let him sort it out on his own. I don't care.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. I really don't care at all.

* * * * * * *

Draco sat on his bed, a book propped open on his lap, completely forgotten. He could barely focus his concentration on a task at hand for more than five minutes without his mind straying to the invariable mental terrain dominated by thoughts of Harry Potter.

Potter had a pleasant face, Draco mused absently to himself, forgetting that he was supposed to not think of him. Harry had that sort of intrinsic appeal, the kind that halted passing glances and drew second looks; it wasn't that he was handsome, but he definitely was attractive. Which only further proved that his hatred for Harry had been an acquired habit.

Draco reached his hand into his pocket, his fingers coming into contact with cold metal, invoking an even colder remembrance. He slowly drew the cuff out, the sharp metal striking sparks of emerald fire from the conjured flame by his bedside, too familiar a colour.

He held it up to the light, and inspected it closely for the first time; he'd never really looked at it carefully while it had been shackled around his wrist — every time he'd so much as glanced at it the manic hysteria had threatened to start all over again in his mind.

Draco had been immensely surprised and relieved when Harry had taken it off him; he'd privately been afraid that Harry would refuse, either out of revenge or malice or just plain spite. After all, had their positions been reversed, he wasn't so sure he would've complied as readily as Harry had. Not without first milking the moment for what it was worth.

But Harry was different from him. And Draco was secretly grateful for that.

Draco ran his forefinger lightly over the engraved name, sunk in fanciful, cursive lettering on the metal band, not on the interior of it, but right across the smooth silver surface. Almost mocking, a muted insult to dignity, a mark of undisputed possession.

H J Potter.

He pressed down hard against the engraved surface of the cuff, so forcefully that the embossed letters were imprinted on the flesh of his fingertip, a reverse branding of sorts. The very implication of the name seemed to bleed through his flesh, a stark reminder of reality, of invisible chains that ran silver poison through his veins, binding intangible cords around the one true thing that was supposed to be boundless — love.

It was a sheer mockery, indeed.

It was a loss of control, the most intimate choice ever given wrenched away, now predestined by a reckless coincidence completely unplanned and entirely horrifying. Disbelief still lingered amidst the last vestiges of hope, the slender hope that this was all just a terrifying dream, that perhaps the potion he'd taken was actually a severe hallucinogen and this obsession with Harry was only a delusion of his deepest fear coming to life.

Or perhaps, his deepest longing.

He didn't know the difference anymore. This was how the love potion was slowly corroding him from within, confusing illusion with veracity until they ran like a seamless blend, indistinguishable from each other, doused with a resentful hatred that alternately faltered and flared.

He hated Harry. But at the same time, he loved him too. Two violent opposites trapped inside him, inconceivably yoked together, like polar ice pitched into the heart of a volcano. It was almost becoming too much to bear, the mounting tension threatening to explode with the slightest provocation.

Draco closed his eyes, and he could almost hear the shatter of ice fissuring, cracking apart and splintering like smashed glass, leaving only broken mirrors of silence in his mind.

* * * * * * *

"Defence Against the Dark Arts tomorrow," Ron groaned, taking out his quill and smoothing out a half-completed roll of parchment on the table. "I haven't finished my Imperius essay yet."

"Neither have I," Harry answered, rubbing his eyes as he pored over the chapter in the textbook on the Imperius Curse. "Got about seven inches to go, I think."

Professor Lupin had returned at the start of the term to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts to the seventh years, much to everyone's delight. Harry was very pleased that he'd be learning his favourite subject from the best Dark Arts teacher they'd ever had, especially since they were going to be taught how to fight the more advanced forms of Dark magic, it being their final year at Hogwarts.

Naturally, one the first topics to be covered was the Unforgivable Curses. Ever since the incident with the faux Mad-Eye Moody demonstrating the Curses in front of their terrified fourth-year class, Dumbledore had deferred the topic to be covered only in the seventh year. He hadn't actually even authorised Moody's in-class Imperius demonstration to begin with.

Consistent with his creative, insightful approach to teaching the subject, Professor Lupin had asked them to write an essay about Imperius. The assignment was not simply to expound on the history and function of the curse, but also to give personal viewpoints and a critical analysis on why they thought the Imperius Curse was so deadly effective.

"Fighting Dark curses isn't just about memorising counterspells," Lupin had wisely told them. "To successfully repel a curse, you have to understand it. You have to be aware of its source of potency, how it strikes its target the deepest. You don't just want to know how it works; more importantly, you have to know why."

"Why — what the hell does he mean, why?" Ron grumbled; he'd clearly finished the easier part of the assignment which could be lifted directly from the textbook. "Why does it work? Because the spell hits you and you can't think properly and you just do whatever the person who cast the spell tells you to, that's why. How the hell am I supposed to fill—" he checked the parchment length, "ten more inches of parchment with that?"

"You could try really big handwriting," Harry suggested unhelpfully, distracted with his own unfinished essay. He tried to recall his experiences with the Imperius Curse, drawing on first-hand knowledge of how the Curse felt, and what it was like to fight against the sensation of powerlessness.

Fiery ice and cold flame, detached bliss and conjured heaven, that's how Imperius felt. It was the most beautifully hollow sensation ever imaginable, so rich with an emptiness that felt both ephemeral and everlasting, and it was like drowning in wine, intoxicating yet mortal, whitewater closing overhead, obliterating pain and pleasure alike...

Fighting it off required every ounce of conscious willpower Harry had possessed. It called for every shred of concentration he could muster, coupled with the singular mental determination that he would not succumb, drawing on a genuine revulsion for what that foreign, haunting voice in his mind compelled him to do, the fervent conviction that he did not want to yield.

It was all about control, Harry decided, chewing thoughtfully on the tip of his quill as he deliberated on how to phrase his thoughts into words. It was the ability to make someone yield to something which even they knew wasn't true, and make him helpless to behave otherwise; a knowing deception, one that blended truth with lies and blurred the boundaries of coercion and willingness.

Satisfied with his mental answer, Harry set the tip of his quill against the parchment, and began to write.

* * * * * * *

Draco spent the rest of the evening immersed in his homework, an extremely rare occurrence for him. He couldn't remember ever putting so much time and effort into a single essay before, and he didn't know if he was throwing himself into work just to distract himself or whether the topic of the assignment truly intrigued him so much. Probably both.

He set his quill down, balancing it on top of the bottle of ink on his bedside table, and started measuring the length of his parchment, now finally completed and ready for submission. To Draco's utmost surprise, he'd actually exceeded the minimum requirement by a good fifteen inches. Quite momentous, indeed.

Draco flexed his fingers; they ached from writing almost all evening, especially while in a position on his bed that wasn't quite conducive for proper writing. But he didn't want to go back to the library in case Harry and his friends were still there, and the Slytherin common room was, as usual, a riot in the making.

After tidying his scroll away, Draco found himself compulsively reaching for the handcuff in his pocket again.

He took it out and looked at it, its silver glint now dulled by smudges of his own fingerprints. His almost instinctive need to keep the bloody handcuff close to him was, to say the least, very disturbing. He didn't quite know why — perhaps because it had Harry's name on it. Or perhaps because it was so bitterly ironic that this ugly, degrading contraption was actually representative of the situation he was locked in right now, bonded to Harry in a non-physical sense, which was truly far worse.

Draco thought about that spell Harry had used to create the cuff — it really was a nifty little spell, not to mention with a high kink factor. Draco was surprised that he hadn't learned it before, considering how he prided himself on being well-versed in obscure, quirky charms. And he was even more surprised that Harry knew spell in the first place — Perhaps Gryffindors do have more spunk than we credit them with.

He'd been reading extensively over the past few days, sifting through as many spell encyclopaedias and index books as he could get his hands on. In the course of it, he recalled coming across Harry's cuffing spell on a few occasions. Draco heaved up a particularly formidable-looking black leather-bound volume onto the bed and began flipping through it, his fingers deftly finding the page he was looking for.

It was a Binding Charm — a simple, clever spell that conjured a pair of handcuffs, and which was unbreakable by anyone other than the caster unless very advanced, complicated magical spells were used. The power to unlock the cuffs was unique to the person who cast the spell, and thus the name of the spell-caster was engraved on the cuffs to prevent confusion of ownership, the book said.

How very conveniently humiliating, Draco thought grimly, scanning the details of the Binding Charm.

Evidently, Harry had remembered the charm wrongly — instead of the accurate manicas inice, Harry had said manicam inice, which had accordingly resulted in only one handcuff appearing. Draco mentally recanted on what he'd said about Gryffindors having any flair at all — it wasn't very impressive knowing a spell but casting it wrong. Although Draco reckoned he should be thankful Harry hadn't miscast the spell in a way that resulted in his wrists becoming the size of turnips or something horrid like that.

A wave of bitterness washed over him. *I* should be the last person to talk about messed-up magic.

Draco sighed, and started to memorise the Binding Charm, which he had a feeling might come in useful some time in later life. "Manicas inice," he muttered to himself. "Not manicam, that's the wrong one, it's supposed to be manicas. Whoever came out with this spell, anyway? Probably some egotistic eighth-century warlord with too many slaves so he had to label all of them to keep track..."

"Draco?" came a familiar voice, and the corresponding head of Goyle poked itself into the dormitory, lit with a broad, goofy smile. "Oh, there you are! I've been looking all over Hogwarts for you!"

Draco sighed irritably. "Really. And what a lucky coincidence that you've managed to tracked me down, since the Slytherin dorm is about the last place you'd expect to find me! Even though I keep all my stuff here and sleep here every night. Spiffy detective skills, Goyle."

"Um... yeah." Goyle clearly didn't grasp the sarcasm. He lumbered in, and looked curiously at Draco. "What are you doing?"

Draco surreptitiously slid the handcuff back into his pocket. "My homework, of course."

"Who were you talking to? There's no one here." Goyle looked quizzically around the empty dormitory. "Are you talking to yourself, Draco?"

"Yes, it's about the only way I can be sure of intelligent conversation these days," Draco remarked dryly.

Goyle looked slightly put out. "Oh, come on, Draco. You keep ignoring us these past few days... are you mad at us about something?" He looked shifty, then approached Draco on the bed, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "You're not angry about the chocolate cupcakes, are you? Because that was all Crabbe, not me."

Draco frowned. "What?"

Goyle looked contrite. "The chocolate cupcakes your mother sent last week."

"I thought you said my owl ate them."

Goyle glanced over his shoulder, as if afraid someone might overhear him. "No," he said, shaking his head, his eyes gleaming. "Crabbe ate them. He was afraid you'd be mad, so he said your owl did it."

"Oh well, he's absolutely right. I am mad. With both of you. So go away." Draco picked up another book and held it open in front of his face. "Don't you have anything else to do? Have you finished all the food in the kitchen already? You can start eating the house-elves next."

Goyle looked revolted at first, then seemed to consider the idea. "You mean they're edible?"

"How would I know?" Draco rolled his eyes. "Why don't you run along and find out? And while you're at it, you can eat Mrs Norris for dessert. Now go away and leave me alone."

Goyle looked unhappy. "You hardly ever hang out with us anymore," he complained in a whining voice. "It's no fun without you. Even Potter has started to notice, and it's getting boring because you're not around to help us make fun of—"

"What?" Draco's head snapped up immediately. "What did you just say? About Potter?"

Goyle blinked, and took a moment to mentally rewind his own sentence.

"I said," he repeated slowly, "Even Potter's noticed you're not hanging out with us nowadays. He asked 'So where's Malfoy?' when we bumped into them just now."

"And what did you answer him?" Draco demanded sharply.

"I don't know."

"You don't know what you told him?" Draco's voice rose in annoyance.

"No. I said, 'I don't know'." Goyle blinked dully again. "Then I went all over Hogwarts looking for you and finally found you here."

"Yes, very thoughtful of you." Draco sighed, and leaned back on his bed. "Well if Potter ever asks you again, tell him it's none of his bloody business."

Goyle brightened. "Can I show him it's none of his bloody business, too?" He cracked his massive fists with unsettling enthusiasm, trying to look mean and menacing and actually succeeding quite well.

"No!" Draco snapped roughly, without thinking. "You hit him and I'll kill you."

Draco was genuinely shocked at his own words the instant they spilled from his lips; Goyle goggled at him incredulously.

Draco took a deep breath, and clarified, "What I mean is, if anyone's going to do anything to Potter, I'll be the one." His words were carefully ambiguous. "And I don't want you crippling him before I have a chance to get at him."

Goyle seemed sufficiently satisfied with Draco's explanation, and grinned a broad nasty smile. "All right! Go Malfoy!" He pumped his chunky fist into the air in a ridiculously camp fashion. "You go get him!"

Draco said nothing in response, lowering his eyes to the meaningless blur of text. He waited until Goyle disappeared out of the door, his heavy footsteps fading away, then set the book down and sat staring off into space.

"Yes," Draco said softly to himself, "I wish I could."

* * * * * * *

Four hours later, at one in the morning, Draco was still awake, although barely so. He was in bed, lying on his side, the copy of Most Potente Potions he procured from the library resting in a few inches in front of his face. The covers were pulled all the way over his head, shielding him from view. Dim wand-light provided sufficient illumination to read, but his eyes were getting tired and bleary. It didn't help that there wasn't anything remotely useful in the book, since it only dealt with legal, mainstream potions, and love potions were, to say the least, outlawed.

Draco sighed, and closed his eyes to rest; the lighted wand-tip flickered and faded, and his wand silently dropped from his fingers onto the sheets as he started to doze, and finally he fell asleep.

Darkness and confusion flowed in palpable waves all around him, and the bitterly cold wind stung his face like icy needles. He drew a sharp, almost painful breath and looked around wildly, his shrouded surroundings gradually becoming more distinct, painted in bold strokes of black night on every side of him.

He recognised the place: he was in the heart of the Forbidden Forest.

The trees and thickets towered ominously over him, so dense that they trapped the darkness in a continuous black hedge, streaked with the faintest veins of pale moonlight, like traces of silver unicorn blood spilled across the inky sky.

His limbs were leaden and recalcitrant as he tried to take a step forward. A dull pain shot through his arms, and slow horror dawned as he realised that he couldn't move — he was bound to the thick, gnarled trunk of an immense tree, so tall its branches disappeared into the mist above.

His eyes widened, horrified, disbelieving; both his ankles were fettered, and heavy chains encircled his waist, restraining him against the tree. Sleek iron bands manacled both his wrists — they resembled the bonds Roman slaves used to wear — and his arms were pinioned on either side of him, flat against the tree trunk. The rough bark chafed against his back, rubbing his skin raw; he couldn't quite figure out if he was wearing anything at all, but if he was, it didn't offer much protection from the abrasive wood, or any insulation from the biting cold.

He tried to twist his body around to get a better look at the bonds shackling him; he suddenly sensed a flash of movement to his left, and as the silhouette swam into focus, his jaw dropped.

Harry appeared by his side, seeming to coalesce from the substance of shadows, born from nothing yet filling every space between them. Without any hesitation, Harry moved closer to him, his eyes like emerald moons in the starless night.

He stared, forgetting to struggle against his chains, his body still awkwardly aligned against the trunk. His fingers compulsively gripped the rough bark beneath his palms, as if grasping for support that wasn't tangible, and he didn't register the pricks of pain as the thorny wood drew shards of blood.

Harry said nothing, only glided even closer, coy seduction exuding with his every movement, silent and graceful like the midnight breeze.

He shook his head and blinked once more, scarcely believing; but when he opened his eyes again, Harry was still standing in front of him, their faces merely inches apart, the light in Harry's eyes beckoning him like virgin rays of dawn, piercing through the darkness, shattering the night.

He felt his breath catch in his throat, and he parted his lips to speak, but no words found form, only silent wonderment; then suddenly time rushed forward in a dazzling burst, like a splintering hourglass, and the next moment Harry's mouth was on his, kissing him, hard.

Everything except his pounding heart ground to an abrupt halt; the moment immersed him completely, and Harry's lips were all he could feel, scorching his own with feverish passion, mouthing wordless desire. He shivered helplessly as exquisite pleasure overwhelmed him, and he strained against the cuffs that held him back, which kept him away from where he belonged...

Harry's hands slid across his shoulders, running over his neck and moving to hold his face, firmly yet tenderly, and the kiss seemed to go on forever as eternity gave itself up in careless inconsequence. Harry's manner was slow and gentle, taking his own time, drawing out the moment with painful pleasure, and Harry kissed him so deeply that it almost hurt, not on his lips but in his heart.

He arched forward plaintively, moaning against Harry's mouth, losing himself in the kiss; suddenly he was vaguely aware that the tightness gripping his body had abated — the cords binding him slithered off his body like metal serpents, and the cruel metal braces on his wrists melted into the mist, liberating him.

Initial surprise quickly turned into ecstasy, and in this ethereal dimension where time ran like grains of sand between his fingers, he found himself free at last. Without hesitation and riding the surge of pure instinct, he desperately threw himself forward, against Harry — but with a stomach-churning lurch everything suddenly slid from his grasp, dissolving into nothing; and he was falling, falling into darkness, falling into himself...

Draco's eyes flashed open, wild with fever, and he bolted upright, breathing hard, his body covered in a cold sweat. Damp strands of his fringe clung to his forehead, and he raked a trembling hand through his hair, pushing it out of his eyes as the familiar surroundings of the Slytherin dormitory swam into focus.

His entire body was still shaking as he covered his eyes with his palms, his mind's eye unable to be shielded, and the reality of his dream ran through his veins like poisoned blood. Draco drew his knees up to his chest and buried his face in his arms, trying desperately to collect his scattered thoughts now swirling in random panic.

Harry.

Kissing him.

Kissing him like he had never imagined anyone could kiss anyone else before, and probably because that was exactly what it was — a figment of his feverish imagination. Because the day Harry Potter kissed him out of his own free will... he could probably make a lifetime out of waiting for that day.

This wasn't the first time he had dreamt about Harry in this kind of scenario, and from the looks of it, this dream was by no means the last of its variety. What was even more disturbing was, his dreams were steadily becoming more deviant and sensual, and the presence of clothes in the dreams was becoming increasingly rare. Probably in the next dream he'd find himself gloriously naked with Harry soaking in a clear glass bathtub filled with champagne.

Draco shook his head vigorously to clear his thoughts as that mental image invariably began to form in his mind. He really could do without that last straw to wipe out his sanity, whatever still remained of it.

No, he definitely could not afford to fall asleep again — the dreams he'd been having were becoming unbearable. Vivid torture.

Draco picked up the book he had been reading earlier, which lay half-open next to him, and reached for his wand, whispering, "Lumos." A quick glance around made sure that everyone in the dormitory was still sleeping soundly, and the grunting rhythm of Goyle's snores filled the still room.

Draco turned a few pages randomly, and started to read again, holding his wand above the page. But the meaningless blur of words ran like ink and charcoal on wet canvas, dissolving in incoherence as the remembrance of Harry's kiss took prevalence over everything else, sending a warm shiver down his spine.

It was just a dream, he told himself, over and over again, a fervent mantra, although he wasn't quite sure if he was relieved or rueful. His shallow breathing had gradually eased, although the mental alarm showed no signs of reaching a plateau. Only a dream.

But deep inside, he knew that the essence of a dream was true yearning and fear, lost in denied reality.

* * * * * * *

Apart from the fact that they seemed to very conveniently avoid crossing paths of late, Harry mused to himself as he headed down the corridor toward Professor Lupin's classroom for Defence Against the Dark Arts, there was virtually no indication of anything else amiss with Malfoy.

Well, almost no indication. The lack of derisive remarks was, in itself, extremely strange.

Class was steadily becoming a much duller affair without Malfoy's antics, Harry realised as he settled down next to Ron and Hermione, waiting for Professor Lupin to come into class. He remembered the countless times he and Malfoy had faced off in class or in the halls. Wand fireworks flared with abandon as warfare would erupt every once in a while, and the rest of the class would watch in fearful fascination as they duelled, a personalised variation of the Slytherin vs. Gryffindor rivalry. Such showdowns often landed both of them with detention.

Harry's eyes cut across the classroom, searching out Malfoy's familiar figure amidst the Slytherins — the other boy was engaged in conversation with Pansy Parkinson, who was batting her eyelashes flirtatiously at him, although Draco for his part seemed less than enamoured of her. An air of indifference surrounded Draco's casual gestures, still graced with effortless arrogance.

Has he found a way to get around that potion? Harry wondered; but there was still the inexplicable absence of hostile confrontations between them. I wonder if he has...

But never mind Malfoy, Harry thought suddenly, recalling to mind a disturbing dream he'd had last night. I think his madness has rubbed off on me. Harry had dreamt he was back in the Forbidden Forest with Malfoy, and it was almost pitch-dark, but what was most sinister was that he was kissing Malfoy, not the other way around.

Eurgh. What a nightmare. Why the hell am I thinking about, heck, even *dreaming* about kissing him? Harry shook his head, disturbed and baffled. Must be the post-traumatic stress disorder kicking in.

Students were drifting to the front of the classroom to put their homework scrolls on Lupin's desk; their teacher appeared to be running late. Harry took his scroll out of his bag; Hermione, who sat next to him, was still writing furiously on a parchment already twice as long as the minimum requirement.

"Want me to hand it in for you?" Ron offered. He was holding his own scroll in his hand; he'd eventually managed to fill the required length, with medium-sized handwriting and rather generous spaces in between paragraphs.

Harry handed his scroll over to Ron. "Yeah, thanks." He got to his feet as well, meaning to go over to ask Seamus Finnigan about the scheduling of the next Quidditch match; this year, Seamus was in charge of coordinating and commentating for the matches.

Ron walked down the centre aisle toward Lupin's desk, and as he approached, he came face to face with Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy was holding a scroll almost as bulky as Hermione's, which presumably was his own Imperius Curse essay. Ron eyed the scroll critically, pure dislike and contempt crackling in his blue eyes.

"Showing off how much you know about the Dark Arts, Malfoy?" Ron said acidly, giving Malfoy a venomous look. "Well I'm sure you know a hell of a lot more than you're letting on — with a father like yours, it's not hard to believe."

Draco's eyes darkened to silvery coal, and he regarded Ron's thin scroll disdainfully. "Yes, Weasley, and I see you can't afford enough parchment to write a decent essay — but with a family like yours, it's perfectly understandable."

Ron stepped closer to Draco, his nostrils flaring, his eyes flashing with anger. "One of these days, Malfoy," he hissed hotly. "One of these days, my father will get a warrant to sweep out your house and expose your family for what they really are — Dark wizards."

Draco's eyes narrowed, but he met Ron's gaze evenly, and answered very calmly, "Your father should sweep out your family's Gringotts vault first — I imagine the dust there weighs more than the gold."

That was the limit.

Ron snarled a string of unpleasant expletives and lunged forward, snatching a fistful of Malfoy's collar; Draco responded by jerking out of his grip, shoving Ron's shoulder hard, and—

"Ron, leave it," Harry said firmly, appearing at their side and prying Ron's hands off Draco's robes, dragging him away.

Draco's eyes flickered up to meet Harry's in brief surprise, and their gazes held for a fleeting moment, the space of a heartbeat, before Draco looked away to glare malevolently at Ron.

Ron turned to Harry, aghast; in response, Harry took him firmly by the arm and propelled him away from Draco, leading him back to the Gryffindor side of the classroom.

"What the heck was that about, Harry?!" Ron looked mildly indignant, and sounded thoroughly frustrated. "Why'd you do that for? I almost had him! I was going to—"

"Ron, calm down..." Harry tried to put in, "you can't hit Malfoy..."

"I have every right to hit him! He insulted me!"

"But you started it, didn't you?" Harry pointed out. He'd been watching the exchange between Ron and Draco from Seamus's table, which was a short distance off.

"So? He starts it every other time."

"Don't be the one to pick a fight with Malfoy, Ron," Harry said reasonably, giving his friend a stern look. "He's not making a fuss for once, so don't go finding trouble with him, okay?"

"And why the hell not?" Ron was obstinate. "He seems rather out of it lately, which is the perfect chance for us to get back at him for all the times he's ribbed us!"

"Don't let this revenge thing get to your head," Harry warned. "And if you get into a scuffle with Malfoy in class, you're putting Lupin in a very difficult position, because he'll have to give you detention or take points from Gryffindor, and he clearly doesn't want to do either."

"It's not fair," Ron said mutinously, scuffing his foot furiously against the table leg. "Why don't we get to throw the first punch, for a change?"

"Because it's not right," Harry stated fairly. "We're not like him, Ron, and we don't pick fights just for sport, or hit people when they're down and out."

"I don't care if Malfoy's down and out. It doesn't change the fact that he's a smug little bastard whom I would dearly love to punch in the face for all the horrible things he's done to us." Ron shook his fist. "He makes me so mad I just want to rip out his intestines and use it as jump rope."

"Ron!" Hermione had come up next to them, and caught Ron's rather unpleasant description. "Don't tell me you've been fighting with Malfoy." She gave Ron a severe look. "Again."

To Hermione's credit, Harry admitted that she had a good deal of self-control, especially compared to Ron. She held herself high even in the face of ridicule by the Slytherins, not retaliating or sniping back; the only time she'd reacted to their provocation was when Malfoy had insulted Hagrid, whereupon she had slapped him. But most of the time, Hermione took the Slytherins' affronts in her own stride.

"Ron, you know very well Malfoy's just saying things to wind you up all the time!" Hermione shot Ron a disapproving glance as she rolled up her homework, finally finished. "Just leave him alone and don't get all bothered by him."

"Yeah, take it easy, Ron." Harry agreed, and added, "Malfoy's not worth all that trouble, you know."

Harry looked away, and suddenly saw Draco watching him, from across the classroom, and he reflexively paused, tensing slightly as eyes of grey rested evenly on him, calmly piercing.

Draco wore an inscrutable expression on his face, like a slate wiped clean, and he regarded Harry with eyes that were filled with an ambiguity which could be read in half a dozen different ways. Simmering tension and gathering storm clouds edged Draco's gaze as their eyes held for a split second and a dash of eternity, before Draco lowered his eyes and turned away.

Harry frowned; he felt annoyed at letting himself get drawn into the natural magnetism of Draco's eyes, for even entertaining that lingering look when he should be offering nothing but staunch refusal, both for Draco's sake and his own.

Harry felt... confused. Malfoy was behaving very strangely indeed, and for the life of him Harry just couldn't decipher the mixed signals he was getting, which seemed to contradict one another — a spectrum of anger and haughtiness and hate and indifference and pain woven in swirling undercurrents, unfathomable and altogether very perplexing.

Harry's eyes narrowed, continuing to watch Draco, whose blond head was now dutifully bowed over a textbook. For some amorphous reason, Draco appeared a lot bolder and more composed than he should rightfully be — casting glances that came across as coy and not just furtive, looking away just when he'd captured Harry's full attention... Harry got the impression that Draco was leading him on, which was a rather contrary state of affairs given that the reins were presumably in his own hands, if the love potion story was true.

How ironic, Harry reflected thoughtfully, that the word potion slices 'love story' down in the middle.

There always was a twisted sense of humour in the bitterest of ironies.

Across the room, Draco clenched his fists under the table, feeling the weight of Harry's searching look upon him like the dense breath of a thunderstorm, dark and imminent, almost tangible, skirting on the fringes of his restless dream.

Why? Draco wondered, a rare confusion tipping the scales of carefully controlled panic. Why did he tell Weasley to back off? What the hell is he playing at?

That's just it, said a soft dangerous voice from deep within him. He's playing. He's playing with *you*. Potter's enthralled by this new power, this power over you, and it's just a game to him, a cruel game of revenge. For all the things you've ever done to him, you've just given him the perfect way get back at you —he's torturing you with his presence.

Draco closed his eyes, pained. But had he actually expected anything less? Absolute power corrupts absolutely, even in the hands of the saint commonly known as Harry Potter. It was an evil too exquisite to resist, like Temptation walking around stark naked with a flashing placard that said 'Indulge in me!'.

And Draco knew he was fleshing out his own punishment, and all he was left to contemplate was how much longer he could hold out. All he had to comfort himself was the slender ray of hope that he could find a way to reverse this spell before it bled him of all that he was worth, before it was too late.

Draco glanced over at Harry, who was now smiling and laughing with his Gryffindor friends, and he quickly looked away again, his eyes stinging with a rising desperation.

Or was it already too late?

5 Consequences

Love is not a word; it's a sentence.

Professor Lupin laid all their corrected homework scrolls on the table, and looked up at the class with a pleasant smile.

"Well. Here's the homework submitted last lesson, I've graded them and am just going to say a few words before returning them to you." He gestured expansively at the pile of scrolls, and remarked dryly, "Some of you have clearly taken the length requirement very technically indeed, and might be pleased to know that I did take note of your painstaking efforts to keep your essay exactly thirty inches long."

Ron smiled sheepishly and looked at Harry, who grinned back.

"However," there was a twinkle in Lupin's eye as he continued, "this homework assignment was generally very well done, with a few outstanding pieces of work." He picked up a thick scroll, and held it up. "Hermione has done a meticulous job in researching the history of Imperius through the Ages, going beyond textbook material and giving a very accurate account of the origins and development of the Curse. Five points to Gryffindor, well done."

It came as no surprise, of course, although Hermione still blushed and looked very pleased with herself. Ron grinned and raised his eyebrows as if to say What's new?, but truthfully they were all glad for the extra points, since the battle for first place in the House rankings was a tight spot between Slytherin and Gryffindor. Harry gave Hermione a thumbs-up sign.

"Another excellent essay worth mention," Lupin announced, "is written by Mr Malfoy."

Harry's head snapped in Draco's direction, genuine surprise on his face; Draco didn't look at him, and was just staring fixedly straight ahead. A murmur arose in the classroom, comprising of the Gryffindors' displeasure that Hermione wasn't the only one whose essay was highlighted, and the Slytherins' satisfaction that they had representation in the honour roll.

"Mr Malfoy has done an outstanding practical analysis of the Imperius Curse, which is actually much more difficult than the research since it incorporates personal commentary." At this Hermione frowned, annoyed at having her thunder stolen. Lupin continued, "He has managed to summarise the reason for Imperius' efficacy in a very succinct manner, and his essay is among the most insightful that I've ever read."

Lupin picked up what was presumably Draco's scroll and unfurled it; Harry glanced at Draco again, and was once more startled to see the look of dismay on Draco's face as Lupin began to read selected passages from the essay.

"Imperius is so potent because of the absolute control it affords the one casting the spell — the victim is forced to bend completely to the caster's will, unable to fight it unless duly trained or in possession of special magical prowess," Lupin read out loud; the class was silent as they all listened. "Imperius has been ubiquitous through the ages because of its simple incisive nature, in how it penetrates its victim deeply, permeating mind, body and soul. Other variations of the Imperius Curse include Mental Manipulation Spells, certain kinds of memory charms, and love potions."

Harry flinched slightly, sitting up straighter. He looked to Draco once more, and saw the blond head bowed, Draco's hands covering his eyes, his shoulders slumped. Harry stared at Draco, feeling a heavy sinking feeling in his chest as he listened to Lupin.

"But even more so, the victim is confused, such that he doesn't know what to believe as truth or lie any longer, unable to distinguish between induced thought and real intention. This serves to disintegrate the victim from within — he no longer understands the difference between what he really wants and what the spell is forcing upon him, and in the end, this proves to be the most damaging way of breaking his resolve."

Lupin paused, then skipped a few paragraphs further down, near the end of the essay: "Over time, probably the most destructive effect of Imperius on a person is the gradual, conscious yielding of the mind, until submission becomes almost voluntary, an acquired habit, and the spell has reached its ultimate success when the person truly believes that he is acting out of his own free will. That is when the Curse has finally conquered the last citadel of one's character — his heart."

Professor Lupin glanced at the class, smiling as he rolled up the scroll; Draco finally looked up with a blank expression on his face, although Harry couldn't see very clearly from Draco's profile.

"I couldn't have described it better myself," Lupin favoured Draco with a curt, approving nod; Draco barely acknowledged it, just lowered his eyes once again. "Very well done, Draco. Ten points to Slytherin."

The Gryffindors muttered in outraged protest — how could Malfoy get more points than Hermione? Several Gryffindors shot the Slytherins, Draco in particular, venomous looks, but the smugness on the Slytherin side took the wind out of their sails.

Ron glared resentfully at Draco. "That slimy bastard," he hissed, anger in his low, tight tone. "Probably the only reason he knows so much about Imperius is because he has practical experience! Why the bloody hell does he get ten points for having messed with Dark Arts?"

"Keep it down, Ron," Harry cautioned; Ron's voice was mounting with each furious word.

But Ron was livid. "This is outrageous!" he snapped, his eyes flashing. "What is wrong with Lupin? Why can't he see that Malfoy so obviously knows more about Dark magic than he should? This essay should actually be evidence that the Malfoys are still very well-acquainted with the Dark Arts, and—"

"Ron," Harry repeated, louder this time. "Calm down!"

Meanwhile, Lupin had begun handing out the marked scrolls, and the students made their way to the front desk to collect their homework. Hermione went forward to collect theirs while Ron and Harry stayed at their tables; Ron still fuming and muttering, Harry distractedly staring across the classroom — at Malfoy.

Draco quietly went to the front, picked up his scroll and made his way back to his table. Without even looking at the grade, he shoved the roll of parchment into his bag, and sat down, still in the same dazed trance, the same empty look he wore when Lupin was reading out his essay in front of the class.

Harry felt disturbed; he couldn't quite place the source of his uneasiness, although he knew that it definitely had something to do with Malfoy, and that something in Malfoy's essay had struck a nerve deep within himself. The essay said that love potions were a variant form of the Imperius Curse — was Malfoy describing what he was feeling, under the effect of the love potion? Was it really true? Did it really feel that horrible?

Hermione came back holding three scrolls, and she distributed them to Harry and Ron. She looked sadly at her own assignment, rather put out that hers wasn't the best piece of homework submitted, and even more disgruntled that she'd lost out to Malfoy, of all people.

Harry nudged her. "Hey, cheer up, Herm. Yours was mentioned as being the cream of the crop, too."

"Yeah," Ron nodded, then added darkly, "And you know the only reason why Malfoy is so knowledgeable on the subject is because his dad has a whole collection of Dark Arts things stashed away in their mansion. I'll bet Malfoy learned all that stuff even before he came to Hogwarts." He shook his head in exasperation. "Why Lupin is so blind to this is beyond me."

Hermione looked thoughtful. "Do you really think Malfoy wrote all that from first-hand experience with the Curse?"

"No," Harry answered, without thinking, just as Ron affirmatively replied, "Yes."

Ron blinked, and regarded Harry incredulously. "What?"

Harry felt rather embarrassed; but he continued reasonably, "No, I don't think so, because Malfoy was describing the effect of having Imperius—" he hesitated briefly, "or any of its variant spells cast on a person; not the other way around."

Ron was reluctant to concede. "Don't tell me you actually believe Malfoy hasn't dabbled in Dark Arts and the Curses!"

"No," Harry answered. "I'm— positively sure Malfoy's messed with Dark Arts." Messed up, too, he added silently. "But I don't think he's actually practiced the Unforgivable Curses. Maybe his dad, but not him."

"What? I can't believe you actually think that!" Ron was getting very agitated. "This is Malfoy, Harry. He'd throw a drowning man both ends of the rope, what isn't he capable of? And he probably knows all about how Imperius feels because he's seen his father use it on people so many times before."

"Well, I do think Malfoy's capable of it," Hermione said slowly, "but I can't say for sure if I think he's actually done it, before. It's not easy to learn to cast Imperius, you know — it's not just a simple wave of the wand, it requires advanced magical training."

Ron looked mutinous. "The day my dad finds enough evidence to get a search warrant for Malfoy Mansion," he said in a fierce, ominous tone, grinding his right fist in his other palm, "we'll finally expose the whole rotten family for what they really are, and then Lucius Malfoy can spend the rest of his Galleons refurbishing his cell in Azkaban."

Hermione patted Ron comfortingly on the shoulder. "Take it easy, Ron, no need to get all worked up."

They settled down as Lupin started talking about the Ministry regulations regarding the prohibited use of Imperius. There was a shuffle of parchments and the scratching of quills as everyone started jotting down notes. Harry twirled his quill absently between his fingers, his mind straying from Lupin's voice...

He threw a furtive look in Draco's direction; the other boy was looking down at a parchment laid before him, as if deep in concentration. His quill was poised in his hand, but he hadn't written down a single word the whole time. Harry watched him, slipping into his own questioning thoughts, only starting to contemplate the potential seriousness of the situation.

There was something about the essay that Malfoy wrote — it possessed a certain underlying strain that ran parallel to the covert plea and veiled urgency in Draco's voice the last time they'd spoken, in the trophy room. Ron was right; it was as if Draco was speaking from experience, although as Harry had then pointed out, it was from the receiving end of the spell. A sympathy inside him twinged feebly, not quite guilt, but still—

"Harry!" came Hermione's voice in a low hiss, next to him.

Harry snapped out of his reverie with a jolt, and blinked; he saw a few curious heads turn in his direction, and Professor Lupin was looking at him with an expectant expression on his face. He blinked again, confused; he hadn't been paying attention to a word of what Lupin had been saying...

"He asked who's been able to fight off the Imperius Curse before," Hermione swiftly came to his aid, muttering from the corner of her mouth without moving her lips, a skill she'd perfected from sitting next to Neville in Potions.

"Oh! Um, yes sir, uh, me," Harry said hastily, giving Lupin an apologetic sort of grin. "I have, uh, a couple of times before."

If Lupin had noticed his inattention, which Harry was sure he had, he let it pass without comment, and proceeded to ask, "Will you describe for us, then, how it felt when the Curse was on you, and how you managed to fight it off?"

Harry got to his feet, and thought for a moment, feeling mildly uncomfortable as everyone turned to look at him.

"Well," he began slowly, "It felt... it felt like every weight on my body was cast aside, and I was floating — as if my mind was wiped blank, just one single voice telling me what to do, and everything was pure and simple, but it actually felt so clear because it was all empty..." Harry broke off, and shook his head. "It's really hard to describe."

Lupin nodded encouragingly. "I understand what you're trying to say, Harry. It was so uncomplicated in your mind, because the spell suppressed your ability to think for yourself, to make your own choices. So how did you repel it?"

"I just said no," Harry answered truthfully. "I just tried to keep conscious thoughts flowing, my own thoughts, over and over again in my mind I just refused to listen to that voice, even though it seemed to be the only thing I could hear. I just kept pushing it away, and gradually it was easier to block it out of my head."

Draco listened intently as Harry talked; he didn't look up, but every word that Harry spoke crashed like rolling thunder in his mind, echoing with soundless meaning, like a bullet to his head. It struck up a certain ray of hope, but at the same time showered torrents of despair. That's what I need to do to get past this. But I've tried, and I just can't do it. I can't stop thinking. Thinking of him.

"Thank you, Harry," Lupin smiled and gestured for Harry to sit down. He turned to the rest of the class. "Harry has just told you his method of fighting Imperius — there are other ways of getting around it, unique to each individual, so you all have to find the method that serves you best."

Lupin's expression sobered. "The Imperius Curse is by far the least lethal of the three — Cruciatus renders you incapable of bodily control, and there is no way to repel the pain. Avada Kedavra has no counterspell and is irreversible. Since Imperius is the only one of the Curses that can be consciously resisted, it is imperative all of you learn to fight it to at least a certain degree."

At this Neville Longbottom swallowed audibly, and gave Hermione an alarmed look.

Lupin's blue-grey eyes swept over the entire class, all of whom were listening with rapt attention. "I understand from the Headmaster that some of you in this class have been subjected to the Imperius Curse during a class demonstration a couple of years back." Some students nodded.

"I will be conducting an in-class presentation of the Imperius Curse today, to give you students a feel of what Imperius is like, so that you can be better prepared to fight it, if the need arises in the future." Lupin paused, and held up an official-looking piece of parchment for the class to see. "This is a Ministry certificate permitting me to use the Imperius Curse in a limited capacity for today's practical lesson."

Lupin glanced at the students, his eyes showing concern. "I want you all to know that the extent of Imperius that you will be subjected to will not harm you in any way. I know some of you may have bad memories of the last time you underwent the Imperius Curse in class — but that was a completely unauthorised demonstration, without prior approval from the Ministry or the Headmaster. You can be rest assured that Professor Dumbledore is fully aware of this particular practical session, and he has faith that you all are old enough to be able to handle more advanced magic now."

Hermione looked excited, for some reason Harry couldn't quite fathom. Harry trusted Lupin wouldn't harm him with the Curse, but he wasn't overflowing with enthusiasm about the prospect of it, either. His sinister experience of the Imperius Curse at the hands of Voldemort was enough to last him for a long, long time.

Everyone moved toward the front of the classroom with what could only be termed as guarded anticipation. They were all fairly eager to experiment with Imperius, since there didn't seem to be any pain involved, but the natural apprehension was still evident. Lupin was very patient and encouraging, and the students formed a line and waited for their turn.

"Concentrate," Lupin would urge, as he carefully modulated the strength of the spell respective to each student. "Pay attention to your own thoughts, keep focusing on them... no, no, try to ignore my voice in your head... concentrate..."

At the end of the practical session, the only ones who were able to successfully fend off the Imperius Curse without any difficulty were Harry — and Draco. Hermione came fairly close, although she had to try five times before she managed, and got a splitting migraine for all her effort, thought that was overshadowed by her sense of accomplishment.

Lupin smiled at Harry and Hermione, and nodded at Draco. "Well done, the three of you. As for the rest, I'm very happy to see that you all put in your best effort and I have to say, it's a good start. You can only get better at this, so with more experience and improved concentration, you'll all manage it eventually." He favoured everyone with an approving glance, before saying, "Class dismissed."

"Did you see that?" Ron muttered triumphantly to Harry as they filed back to their tables to pack up their things. "Malfoy could fight off the Curse! Now don't tell me you still don't believe he's had tons of practice with Imperius already!"

Hermione came up beside them, and overheard Ron's last statement.

"Well," she pointed out diplomatically, "so could Harry and I. And we don't have Dark Arts training."

Ron gave her a look that said Hey, back me up for a change, will you?, and argued, "But that's different! For both of you — Harry, he's born with some natural Evil Repellent in his blood or something. And you, Herm, you've got the brains and talent to perform just about any charm, curse or countercurse ever invented." At this, Hermione blushed. "But Malfoy? Have you ever seen him top any other Defence Against the Dark Arts assignments?"

Harry considered; Ron had a point. Malfoy had never excelled in this class before. He cast a suspicious glance at Draco, who had just finished packing his own scrolls and quills into his bag. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe Malfoy did have more hands-on training in the Dark Arts than he was letting on. This was one more thing he needed to clear up with Malfoy.

Harry made up his mind; he had to talk with Malfoy. Soon. Now.

Ron and Hermione were already heading out of the classroom; Harry hesitated, then saw Draco quietly leave the classroom through the door at the other end, which led in the direction of the Slytherin dungeons.

"Hey!" Harry called out to Ron and Hermione, who both looked back. "I want to ask Lupin something about my essay. You two go ahead first, I'll see you at lunch?"

Ron and Hermione acknowledged him, and disappeared out of the classroom. Harry lingered a few moments more to make sure that they'd really gone off, before making a bee-line for the other exit and hurrying along the corridor, which was virtually empty since only the Slytherins frequented this route and most had already gone before him.

The corridors were quite dark, despite it being mid-day — it snaked in a general downward curve, with uneven stone steps causing ground level to dip at irregular intervals, slowing Harry down considerably because he constantly had to mind his step. He almost tripped twice, and was beginning to wonder how the hell Malfoy managed to get so much of a head-start in such a short time, when suddenly—

"What do you want, Potter?"

Harry started violently, and whirled to face the direction where the soft, sharp voice came from.

Directly to his right was a narrow passageway he had barely noticed in his hurry to get past — it seemed to have been carved by nature into the high stone slabs on either side of it, and the steep walls were unpolished, still abraded and rough with sediment. It was dark and shadowed, borrowing the slanted light from the torches illuminating the main corridor.

Draco Malfoy slowly shifted out of the darkness, seeming to materialise from the shadows. He wore a strange expression on his face, one that Harry hadn't seen before — almost wiped clean of emotion, yet tinted with a curious mix of anger and resignation. His eyes reflected the dim vermilion flame of the torches spaced along the wall, and he held Harry's gaze evenly.

Harry recovered from his initial surprise. "How did you know I was following you?"

"Who wouldn't?" Draco's mouth curled in a mild sneer. "With you stomping down the corridor like a crazed Erumpent, they'd hear you from the Great Hall."

"Very funny, Malfoy."

"I wasn't trying to be funny, Potter." Draco crossed his arms and glowered at Harry. "What the hell do you want? Just strolling — or should I say stampeding? — down the Slytherin side of town?"

Harry moved a few steps forward, into the cramped passageway; where they were now standing, they were both obscured from sight, only partially visible from a narrow angle in the main corridor, and the semi-darkness cloaked them almost completely.

But Harry could still see Draco clearly enough, the flitter of emotion that randomly crossed his delicate features caught in the flickering play of light across his pale face. They were standing about a foot apart, near enough to touch yet far enough to resist, tension stringing the short distance that lay between them.

"We need to talk, Malfoy," said Harry firmly, without any preamble. "This isn't working."

"Yes, I'm sure this is really hard for you," Draco's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You know, doing nothing and all — I completely understand how unbearable it can get."

Harry ignored him; he was determined not to let Malfoy wind him up, and equally determined to get the answers that he came for.

"Did you really mean it?" Harry demanded, "What you wrote in the essay?"

A closed expression wiped the faltering emotion from Draco's face. "It's an essay, Potter. Not my secret diary."

"Sounded real enough. Even Lupin was impressed with the accuracy of your description."

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "I could do with the decent grade for my term average."

Harry wouldn't give it up, and pressed on. "You mentioned love potions, in connection with the Imperius Curse."

"Yes, I did." Draco's voice was still perfectly neutral; he tilted his head slightly, giving Harry a sidelong look. "But it's up to you to draw whatever conclusions you want."

Harry was exasperated. "Stop beating around the bush, Malfoy, and just give me a straight answer."

"Was that an intended pun?" Draco raised an eyebrow in mock amusement, although his eyes showed no humour.

Harry's eyes darkened with rising annoyance, but he didn't take the bait. "Have you found a way to get rid of the love spell, then?" he asked coolly. "Since you think you can handle it so well yourself."

"It's none of your business," Draco snapped, glaring at Harry. "Why do you care anyway, Potter? Did you come and look for me just to gloat?"

"So you still haven't figured a way out of it, have you." Harry couldn't keep the smugness out of his voice.

"I didn't say that. I might have—" but Draco's voice lacked conviction, "But either way, it's not your concern, Potter. And I don't appreciate you stalking me in the hallways, either."

Harry was getting very angry. "Will you quit being so stubborn, Malfoy?" He matched Draco's glare. "What is wrong with you? Do you think you can just walk away from this, like nothing's happened?"

Draco's face fell; his voice faltered imperceptibly. "I can." There was a meaningful pause. "Why can't you? If it means nothing to you."

The simple question struck a chord with Harry, because it articulated what he had been subconsciously asking himself during the past few days, each time he cast thought to Malfoy's situation: Why do you care?

"I don't care," Harry found himself answering out loud, to his own silent question; in response, Draco's eyes shimmered briefly, the expression in them hardening. Harry drew a deep breath, and continued, "It doesn't mean anything to me, Malfoy, and the only reason this whole thing is bothering me is because it's dangerous. It's Dark magic and you haven't the faintest idea how to handle or control it, much less reverse it. And the longer you wait, the deeper you get sucked in, and I don't know how serious the consequences will be, although I assure you it's not going to be pleasant."

Draco's lips parted slightly in genuine amazement, and he looked into Harry's eyes, where he saw earnest sincerity burning with simmering annoyance, and something inside him cracked under the immense pressure rising to the surface. He tried to say something, but the words seemed to choke up in his throat, now too constricted for speech.

Harry saw Draco's expression alter, the liquid emotion that melted and flowed across his face, changing aloofness to desolation, scorn to helplessness. The nerve of sympathy within Harry twitched again, and when Draco didn't answer, he took the opportunity to probe further.

Harry stepped closer to Draco, who didn't move away. He looked Draco straight in the eye, the sheer electricity crackling almost audibly between them, and asked in a low voice, "I want to know what's really going on, Malfoy."

Draco closed his eyes as the fireworks exploded silver and green and red behind the blackness of closed lids, and the intensity was too much to bear, and he couldn't hold back any longer.

He opened his eyes, and his answer to Harry's question dissolved away, inarticulated; Draco's hands reached forward out of their own volition, grasping Harry and pulling him sharply against his own body. The next thing he felt through the haze in his mind was the heated touch of Harry's mouth under his, and he was kissing Harry, and he finally knew completion.

Harry stumbled as Draco advanced swiftly upon him, and his exclamation of surprise melted against Draco's lips, which almost roughly closed over his own; he blinked, startled, as for the second time in his life he tasted the contrary sweetness of his arch enemy. Draco's hands ran up the sides of his arms, holding him against the wall, the narrow corridor urging their bodies too close for comfort, yet it still felt strangely right.

What? What the heck!

Harry placed his hands firmly against Draco's chest and pushed him away, breaking their connection; Draco abruptly pulled back as well, the shock and realisation of what he'd just did swirling like metallic shards in his eyes, and his shoulders slumped in hopeless resignation as he stepped backwards, unsteadily.

"This is what's going on." Draco whispered, and his voice quivered on the edges, breathless and anguished.

An extended pause followed, and a web of confusion and bitterness and regret spun itself in the volumes of charged silence filling the narrow void between them. Harry was still slightly dazed, the lingering warmth on his mouth reminiscent of Malfoy's soft lips, and it took a few moments for him to collect his thoughts.

"Nothing's changed, has it?" Harry's voice was quiet, carefully measured.

Very softly. "No."

They were still standing very close together, the confines of the breadth of the corridor forcing an almost unbearable proximity. Harry could feel the heat of Draco's body so near him, and the darkness accentuated the sense of feeling, Malfoy's presence seeming to flow all around him, embracing him with a distant, unreachable warmth. Just a kiss away, yet so far removed.

Draco closed his eyes, shivering not only from the sudden cold that iced through his veins. Harry's subdued reaction to his kiss was more unnerving than he had ever expected — it was so quietly intense, slicing through the tension with its silent blade, rendering him more confused and lost and helpless than he could ever remember being.

The silence started to freeze over, edged with awkwardness; Harry cleared his throat. "Malfoy—"

"I can't." The brief words spilled from Draco's lips, twisted with a hidden plea.

Harry looked up at him, meeting his gaze, mildly surprised at the raw, audible desperation in Draco's voice. He almost asked You can't what?, but bit back the words at the last moment, for that question would surely have halted Draco's tentative imploration, and he would have instantly seen the steely defences snap back into place.

And so Harry said nothing, and just waited.

Draco took a deep breath, the words catching briefly as he looked into eyes of startling green. "I can't," he said again, his voice wretched. "I can't do this. I can't do... anything."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked softly, antagonism absent from his voice.

"I mean, I can't do anything." Draco raked a hand through his blond hair, pushing a few wayward strands out of his eyes. "I can't think properly, and I can't find any way of reversing the spell. It's unbearable when you're not around, but I can't stand being with you, either."

Harry grimaced slightly at Draco's last few words. "That's nice and tactful."

Draco ignored him. "I mean it, Potter. I can't take this for much longer."

Harry sobered, and watched Draco carefully. "So what do you want me to do, then?" A mean streak flared inside him, and caused him to add, "Or is the 'stay away from me' plan still in effect?"

"Comic relief is not appreciated at this juncture, Potter." Draco looked agitated. "Haven't you got anything useful to say?"

"Useful?" Harry half-snorted, shaking his head. "You mean, like help? Because I distinctly recall you telling me in no uncertain terms that that's not something you want from me. Ever."

Draco hesitated, unsure of what to say — the alternate clenching and relaxing of his fingers betrayed his nervousness. For once his natural way with witty words evaded him as a profusion of conflicting thoughts ran through his mind like a powerful surge of electric current.

"I offered you my help the last time, Malfoy." Harry pointed out shortly, when Draco didn't answer. "You refused."

"So what, it's off the table now?" Draco's eyes glinted with a tarnished defiance, dulled by more urgent desperation.

"I'm not your slave, Malfoy." Harry said flatly. "You're not allowed to order me around according to your whims and fancies."

"But you came to look for me." Draco's simple words were measured, almost shrewd.

Exasperation and anger sparked in Harry once again. "And that means completely nothing! I told you before and I'll do it again — I didn't come here because I cared for you. I don't give a damn what you do with your life! But I draw the line when it gets me involved, because I'd sooner die than touch Dark magic, so I want you to get this spell off and just— just leave me alone!"

Harry's outburst was met with a stunned silence that reverberated down the corridor, echoes of emotions from both of them, too entwined to be distinguished.

Finally, Draco said, very quietly, "Leave if you want to, then."

"I don't want to leave." Harry's voice was edged with steel. "I want the reassurance that you'll fix this bloody mess so that we can both get on with our lives."

Draco shrugged — not casually, but heavily. "I can't give you that promise."

Harry shook his head obstinately. "That's not good enough for me, Malfoy."

"Is anything ever good enough for you, Potter?" Draco exploded, anger sparking in his eyes. "What do you want me to say? Will it make you happier if I told you that everything's fixed, so you can just walk away and pretend nothing's happened? Have you ever thought about how hard it is for me? Or are you just worried about your precious innocent skin getting tainted by Dark magic?"

"That's right!" Harry snapped back, unconsciously advancing a small step, closing the distance between him and Draco. "Just because you enjoy tinkering with horrible Dark potions gives you no right to drag me into this mess! And don't—" Harry saw Draco open his mouth to speak, "Don't give me that crap about it having nothing to do with me! Because even if you move to Alaska it doesn't change the fact that I'm involved in this— this love potion, and your denial isn't helping!"

"You think I'm not trying?" Draco's voice cracked slightly with emotion, his eyes flashing with helpless frustration and unspoken agony. "I've been doing nothing but try, and I just can't. You're damn right that this is Dark magic, and it's in my blood, Potter, running in my veins with every breath I take and it's poison. And there's nothing I can do, except maybe bleed myself dry, which is becoming a more viable option with every passing minute."

"Don't be stupid, Malfoy," Harry hissed fiercely, although anxiety tinted his eyes a deeper shade of green, the colour of the jungle in the still of the night, a darkened meadow. He took a step forward, seizing Draco by the shoulders, feeling a reflexive tension flinch through the other boy's body, but he held firm. "Are you trying to make me feel guilty, threatening to kill yourself? Do you think I'm going to fall to my knees and plead with you to be rational?"

Harry released his hold on Draco, shoving him away with ungentle force, and shifted his weight to his back foot, his gaze still burning on Draco. "Well think again, because the world doesn't revolve around you, Malfoy."

"No." Draco's voice was toneless. "Right now, my world revolves around you."

"Oh, am I supposed to be flattered?"

"Don't be," Draco said bitterly. "I'm hating every moment of it."

Harry's expression hardened, tentative amicability turning to disgust; he opened his mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it, and just shook his head angrily. "Forget it. I should've known better than to expect any more from you than your stupid pride."

Harry turned on his heel and strode toward the main corridor, in the direction where amber torchlight was slanting into the darkened passageway like a flaming shadow.

No oaths, no swearing, unlike the last time. He just walked away.

Draco shut his eyes, biting down on his lower lip. Arrogance and desperation warred inside him, and he knew that it was now, or never again—

"Potter, wait."

Harry stopped and looked back at Draco, more out of reflex than willingness. The flaming torches cast hazy shadows of light across Draco's face, outlining the weariness dulling his fine features, contrasted with the faint rose blush on Draco's pale cheeks, courtesy of the brief, torrid kiss.

"Yes." Draco's voice was soft, defeated.

"Yes? Yes what?"

"I am. Asking you."

Genuine surprise lit Harry's eyes, and they glinted warm jade in the darkness. Draco held his breath, waiting — he wondered if Harry was going to milk this moment of triumph for all it was worth, revelling in his humbled acknowledgement, because at the back of his own mind Draco knew that it was exactly what he would have done, in the same position. He brace himself for the biting, sarcastic words he was almost certain would ensue, the moment of victory that Harry had hard won.

Harry gave Draco a searching look, trying to decipher his intentions; his eyes met Draco's, and for the briefest moment something between them connected, something akin to understanding, and all of a sudden the natural hostility and chemical anguish between them wilted for a fleeting second, laying bare relentless confusion and raw truth.

Then Draco blinked, and looked away, and the moment died like a smouldering flame touching water, but to Harry it was enough, enough at least to warrant a second chance. It was even more poignant than a glimpse into the past, or even the future, because lived now, in the present, and it was a reason to believe.

"What do you want me to do?" Harry asked quietly, no reproach in his voice, and with this unobtrusive question he allowed the golden opportunity to slip, surrendering revenge to a stronger emotion stirring within him — sympathy.

Draco looked relieved; the tension in his features seemed to relax ever so slightly, and his body struck a more comfortable posture leaning up against the wall, and his lips curled in the smallest of smiles — almost grateful, in Harry's opinion. But his body language was about all that Draco permitted to reveal his inner feelings; when he spoke again, his voice was calm and even, although lacking his usual arrogance.

Just as Draco opened his mouth to speak, the sound of distant voices floated from the outside corridor; he quickly glanced around, anxiety darting in his eyes. "Damn — someone's coming." He turned back to Harry, urgency in his voice. "Listen, I have to go now, I'll talk to you again later."

Harry swore inwardly at the untimely interruption; there were still so many things he had yet to ask Draco. "Malfoy, I want to know—"

"I'll get in touch." Draco repeated, curtly cutting him off with a brief shake of his head, although his expression was torn between wanting to stay and needing to go. A liquid emotion seemed to rise on his face, softening the intrinsic pain knotted in his features; Draco took a step closer to Harry, closing whatever remained of the short distance between them.

Harry stiffened and drew back slightly, wondering if Malfoy was going to kiss him again — but instead, Draco simply raised his right hand, and brushed his fingers ever so lightly against Harry's left cheek; the softest stroke like a phoenix's feather, so brief that had Harry blinked, he would have missed the movement, though by no means the sensation on his skin, mingled warmth and cold on a single touch.

Very quickly Draco let his hand drop to his side again; a momentarily embarrassed look flitted across his face, before he turned away without a further word and slinked out of the dense shadows back into the main corridor, his movements silent and graceful, and he was gone.

Harry stared after Draco, not moving, his back still leaning against the wall of the narrow passageway. Flickering torchlight was all that remained where Malfoy had stood, and Harry couldn't help thinking of the way it had lit amber sparks in Draco's storm-grey eyes. And he thought about the way Draco had touched his face, even for that fleeting breath of a second, the startling tenderness in his manner both incongruous and consonant at the same time.

Congratulations, Harry thought to himself, shaking his head with grim dismay. You are now officially barking mad. *And* you let Malfoy kiss you again. What the hell was that about?

But he needs your help. Another voice spoke out, definitely not the voice of reason, but not quite the scruples of conscience, more like... empathy? Not really that, either — but whatever it was, whichever source deep within him it stemmed from, it firmly told him that walking away from Malfoy's predicament was not an option. Not now, at least, not when Malfoy had finally found the humility to ask for his help. It just wouldn't be right.

Harry sighed, pushing himself away from the wall and making his way out into the main corridor, tracing his steps back where he came, past the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom (now empty) en route to the Great Hall, where from the looks of it, lunch had already commenced. He'd apparently been talking to Malfoy for longer than he'd imagined.

"Hey, where've you been?" Ron asked through a mouthful of mashed potatoes as Harry slid into a chair next to him, eyeing the food but not feeling very hungry.

Harry cast an instinctive glance across the Great Hall, at the Slytherin table, immediately noticing the conspicuously empty place where Malfoy always sat. "Oh, nothing. Just had some things I needed to clear up."

"Hey, Harry!" Seamus called from across the table. "Got some news for you — the Gryffindor-Slytherin match will be pushed forward from a fortnight away to next week instead. They want to do some patching up of the grass surfacing on the pitch in the week after next. No problems with that, I hope?"

Harry was Quidditch captain and Seeker for Gryffindor ever since their fifth year, when the annual Quidditch Cup had resumed after the Triwizard fiasco. He'd led Gryffindor to consecutive victories for the past two years running, chalking up an admirable winning streak ever since he joined the team in his first year at Hogwarts.

Harry pondered for a moment, then shrugged, still rather distracted. "Should be all right. We've been practicing hard for the past few weeks, anyway."

Seamus nodded. "That's cool, then. I'll just let Malfoy know about the rescheduling."

Malfoy, Harry realised with a jolt.

Malfoy was his counterpart on the Slytherin team — captain and Seeker as well. The handful of times they'd faced each other on the Quidditch pitch, Harry had come off victorious with the Snitch and the match. It had altogether slipped his mind that he'd be going up against Malfoy in the next match, which had now even been brought forward.

Harry usually took to the chance of meeting Slytherin with no small measure of glee, but this time, a cloud of doubt nagged at the back of his mind. Somehow, it didn't seem... fair to Malfoy, to have to compete under the circumstances he was in. But there wasn't anything Harry could do about it, anyway. The fixing of the Quidditch schedule was out of his jurisdiction, and since Madam Hooch had already authorised the switch of match date, probably even Seamus couldn't change it.

Unless, of course, Malfoy could get rid of the spell before next Wednesday morning, which would bring them back to status quo and put them on equal footing again. Although it still would never quite be the same as before.

Harry was subdued throughout the course of lunch, although his unusual quietness went unnoticed as the others chatted animatedly about Quidditch strategy, catalysed by the advancement of the next match. Ron and Seamus dominated the conversation with a thesis-length analysis of the offensive approach the Gryffindor team was adopting, whereby the Beaters would push upfield alongside the Chasers, working in attack more than defence. It was a risky strategy, because more often than not it would leave the Keeper solely in charge of defending the Gryffindor goal, but Harry had been confident that the advantages far outweighed the risks.

Harry watched absently as Ron and Seamus started taking out Bertie Botts Every-Flavour Beans and using them to represent the various Quidditch positions, poking them around with their wands to simulate their game plan. Ron was the unofficial Quidditch strategy consultant for the team; Seamus had taken over commentating duties from Lee Jordan, who had graduated along with the Weasley twins, and promised to be just as unbiased as his predecessor.

Harry had no idea what he was supposed to do to help Malfoy. He hadn't even the faintest idea what the love potion had been made of, Potions never having been his forte. And although there were clear parallels between love potions and the Imperius Curse, it would be presumptuous to assume they were identical in nature and properties. So basically, maybe Malfoy was right after all — he couldn't really be of much help.

Harry was barely listening as Ron and Seamus pronounced themselves satisfied with the strategy at the end of lunch, whooped in triumphant anticipation, and began eating up the Every-Flavour Beans, making an exaggerated show of chomping to bits the ones representing the Slytherin team players. He was still deep in thought as they all left the table and headed back to the Gryffindor common room.

It was appalling how little he actually knew about the machinations of love spells and potions, considering their notoriety even among Muggles. This wouldn't do. There was simply too much reading up he had to do, with too little time and too many other commitments, like homework and Quidditch practice.

He could get ask someone who could offer some useful advice on love potions. But Snape would sooner share the secrets of love potion-making with Gilderoy Lockhart than answer any questions Harry might have about them, so no help seemed forthcoming from that avenue. And Lupin... Harry didn't really relish the thought of explaining the whole situation to Lupin just to hear that there was nothing in his capacity he could do about it, which was a very likely answer he'd receive.

But of course, he could just ask—

"Hermione!" Harry called, quickening his pace to fall into step with Hermione. "Can I talk to you for a bit?"

* * * * * * *

"Malfoy made a love potion? And took it?"

Hermione's eyes were wide as saucers, her eyebrows were raised; incredulity chased across her face, and her expression very quickly changed to one of scepticism. "He's pulling a fast one on you, Harry. Love potions are illegal — they're banned by the Ministry!"

"Look who we're talking about here, Hermione," Harry pointed out logically. "Malfoy. His father probably owns the most comprehensive Dark Arts library in the whole of England. Maybe even Europe. If Malfoy wanted to find out how to make a love potion, probably all he had to do was snap his fingers."

Hermione shook her head, still incredulous. "And what did you say it had to do with you, again?"

Harry found himself blushing. "How do I put this…?" he trailed off, then tried, "How about fate had it that we were both at the wrong place at the wrong time, and it turned out that..."

Hermione was horrified. "You took the love potion?"

"No!" Harry shook his head vigorously. "I didn't take it. I'm the... the object of it."

Hermione's jaw dropped — she was speechless for a moment as the truth sank in. She stared at Harry in utter disbelief, and when she finally spoke, her voice was flat, as if she could scarcely believe the words she was speaking.

"Malfoy... Malfoy's in love with you?" she said slowly, eyeing Harry dubiously. "I hope I'm hearing you wrongly."

Harry smiled wanly. "I wish you were, too."

They were sitting by the fireplace of the Gryffindor common room, side by side, leaning against a big fluffy pile of cushions they had arranged against the wall. The fireplace was lit even though it was in the afternoon, to keep out the chilly wintry frost outside.

Ron had hastily rushed off to the Divination classroom to finish a piece of already-late homework that he had completely forgotten about, leaving Harry a perfect opportunity to talk to Hermione about the matter weighing heavily on his mind.

Hermione still looked appalled, but had gotten her composure back enough to ask, "What happened, exactly?"

With a tired sigh, Harry recounted everything that had transpired since that fateful night when he had made the dismal decision to take a walk along the Forest. He told her how he had met Malfoy there, and the dizzying whirlwind of events thereafter which had spun completely out of control.

When he finally finished, Hermione crinkled up her nose, although Harry couldn't quite tell if she was amused or scandalised. "Malfoy kissed you?"

Harry felt the mild heat flush on his cheeks again, and he bit his lower lip. "It was only twice."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, only twice. Coincidences always come in doubles." But her expression quickly sobered, and there was a frown on her face when she turned to Harry. "But seriously, do you actually believe it? What Malfoy says?"

Harry nodded his head slowly, though he looked pensive. "You should have seen him, Hermione. You know how Malfoy is — well, basically an obnoxious creep. But I've never seen him like that before, those times when I talked to him — he was still unreasonable and all, but he wasn't arrogant and snobbish. He almost sounded... desperate. Like this was really serious."

Hermione still looked highly sceptical. "But it's Malfoy, Harry. Since when do you believe anything he says, ever? I mean, he's made it quite his full-time goal to get us into trouble at every opportunity he can. Remember the incident with Norbert? And how he tried to sabotage you in the third year, dressing up as a Dementor just to wreck your game? I could go on in this thread forever but I think you see my point."

Harry tilted his head contemplatively. "I do, Hermione. But— but it's just... different, this time. I just don't think he's faking it. It's too believable to be untrue... if that makes any sense," he added hurriedly, off Hermione's quizzical expression. "Look, I know this sounds really strange and bizarre and yes, it's Malfoy, who can lie as naturally as other people breathe, but... but I just get the feeling he's telling the truth this time."

"Agreed on the strange and bizarre," Hermione gave Harry a pointed, searching look. "What's gotten into you, Harry? I never imagined in my life that I'd ever see you so— so sympathetic towards Malfoy. Not after everything he's done to us! How do you know this isn't just an elaborate plot to get you into royally huge trouble?"

Harry paused for a moment, and considered. "I don't know. I just— feel it, that he's not lying this time."

"But you can't stake everything on a gut feeling, Harry!" Hermione argued.

"Sometimes you can," Harry replied quietly, shifting himself slightly to look at Hermione. "Remember that night in the Shrieking Shack, with Sirius and Wormtail? We thought that Sirius was a cold-blooded murderer back then, and I thought he was the one who murdered my parents. But when he talked to me, there was just something in his eyes that made me stop and think and believe what he was trying to tell me. Imagine if I hadn't trusted that feeling—" Harry's voice faltered at the thought of it, "I'd have killed him when I had the chance, I'd have killed my parents' best friend, who was innocent."

"That's different, Harry," Hermione objected impatiently, "Sirius never tried to hurt you — the same can't be said of Malfoy!"

"That's not altogether true," Harry pointed out reasonably. "Remember, before that everyone thought Sirius was all out to kill me, and he almost slashed Ron to bits, albeit accidentally."

"Ever since we've known him, Malfoy has repeatedly shown himself disposed for nothing good, with a special penchant for trying to land us in hot soup." Hermione said firmly, then paused. "And Sirius is different — he had Wormtail to prove his innocence, and the fact that Pettigrew had been masquerading as Scabbers all those years was incriminating enough. What has Malfoy got to show for his claim? Has he even given you any concrete evidence that this whole love potion thing isn't just conjured from being high on drugs?"

Harry gave serious thought to Hermione's words. It was true — Malfoy never really offered any solid proof of the situation really being what he claimed it to be... except for his words, and his eyes, which spoke with more eloquent truth than Harry had ever imagined could be possible, from anyone.

"Nothing," Harry admitted. "He hasn't shown me any evidence, except for... well, himself. But why would he, you know—" he hesitated briefly, "uh, kiss me, not once but twice, if it was just to lay a trap? Isn't he afraid that I'll go around school telling tales about him?"

Hermione shook her head firmly. "That's just not good enough, Harry." She turned to face him squarely. "Look, I don't know what in the world you saw in Malfoy that's making you even begin to believe him, but I still think it's too dodgy for you to get involved, not without some evidence that he's really telling the truth. It's not worth the risk, Harry, not for Malfoy."

Harry levelled Hermione's gaze, and said simply, "You think he's lying?"

Hermione looked thoughtful. "I don't trust him, Harry. And I don't think you should, either."

"So do you think I should just walk away from this?" Harry asked quietly.

The reflexive answer Yes! Why are you even giving thought to this? was instantly on the tip of her tongue, but Hermione bit it back at the last moment. She looked carefully at Harry, and to her surprise, noticed the expression on his face — hopeful and confused. It was almost as if he was waiting for her to rekindle that tentative spark of uncertainty, that inexplicable inclination of his to give Malfoy a chance.

Hermione sighed. Either Malfoy deserves a Golden Crystal Ball for his acting skills, or Harry's really lost it.

But at the back of her mind, she knew that if anyone had intuitive skills enough to stake everything on, it was Harry. He was incisively perceptive like no one else Hermione knew, and he had a way of seeing an entirely deeper realm of a situation, beyond academic logic and all practical sense.

She didn't believe a shred of Malfoy's story. But for some reason, to crush that smouldering wick of belief that Harry had in Malfoy just seemed brutal, especially since it was so rare, even though it was entirely contrary to all laws of sanity. And a chance wouldn't hurt... everyone deserved a second chance, at least once in their lifetime. Even someone as horrid as Malfoy.

"Ask him to produce something to show for it," she finally said, carefully weighing her words and wondering what Ron would say if he found out that not only hadn't she promptly told Harry to sod Malfoy, but was now actually telling him to find out more before passing judgement.

But Harry believed Malfoy. Hermione could see it in his eyes, in the layers of confusion woven in his soft voice. And she had no right to take it away from him.

"Are you going to talk to him again?" she asked instead.

"I guess so." Harry shrugged. "I don't know when, though. He said he'd be in touch."

"Gawd." Hermione rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "You two are starting to sound like pen pals! This is becoming disturbing on a level I never knew existed."

Harry actually cracked a wry smile. "Believe me, I never intended for anything like this to happen. Chalk it up to entirely bad luck. Atonement for every sin of my past, present and future life."

Hermione's smile quickly faded, and she sobered, leaning forward earnestly. "But I'm serious, Harry. Don't do anything stupid for Malfoy, not until you're completely sure this whole love potion thing isn't a gigantic hoax." She paused, then added, "And don't be too shaken if it turns out that way."

Harry gave a crooked grin. "Yeah, well, it's Malfoy, what do we expect?"

But Hermione could hear the lack of conviction, the persistent indecision in his voice. She took Harry's hand in hers, and squeezed it. "Don't get me wrong, Harry. Believing in people is a good thing — but it can also be very dangerous."

Harry squeezed her hand back. "I know. Don't worry, I won't do anything rash or stupid. And you're right, Hermione — Malfoy's done absolutely nothing to deserve my trust." Harry paused, a mixed expression crossing his face, and he added thoughtfully, "Don't you think it's ironic, how sometimes the purest qualities can turn around and stab you in the back? Feelings like trust, and faith, and love — they can slice either way, like two-edged swords."

Hermione gave Harry a sidelong glance; it was at times like this, with flashes of pensive thoughtfulness and almost endearing idealism, that reminded her how much she appreciated Harry for his depth of character and inherent affinity for virtue, which defined him as so uniquely special.

"I think you shouldn't do anything until you get some factual proof out of Malfoy. I still have very strong reservations about him, and it's going to take more than just a love potion story to change that." She got to her feet, and gave him an encouraging sort of smile. "It's a rare thing, Harry, to be able to have faith in other people — just be careful who you give it to."

Hermione had to go and see McGonagall about taking a supplementary Transfiguration paper in her NEWTs later in the school year, and so Harry was left sitting by himself in front of the fireplace, brooding over his troubled thoughts, wearing a melancholy expression that suited the atmosphere very well, around and inside of him.

Hermione was right. He couldn't allow himself to trust Malfoy so easily. It made him too vulnerable. He thought about what he'd told Hermione: Malfoy's done absolutely nothing to deserve my trust.

Harry sighed. Which makes it all the more impossible to explain why I do.

* * * * * * *

Draco didn't go down to the Great Hall for lunch that day; he spent the afternoon lying flat on his bed, ignoring the pangs of hunger that stirred in his stomach. He'd already been losing weight recently, although he didn't know if it was attributable to his irregular eating habits, his non-existent sleep pattern, or a slimming side effect of the potion that he didn't know about. Probably a little bit of each, topped off with a generous helping of stress about everything that had been happening.

He thought about his conversation with Harry en route to the Slytherin dormitories — the memory of it was still vivid in his mind, the shadowed atmosphere of the obscured passageway darkly romantic, sinisterly enticing, exactly the way Harry had been to him at that moment. Which was why Draco hadn't been able to restrain himself from stepping forward and kissing him.

The thought of the kiss evoked both anger and satisfaction within him — it had been such an infinitely fulfilling sensation, when he pressed his lips to Harry's, as if it suddenly didn't matter if everything else around them crumbled and fell away, that the kiss alone was enough to sustain him. It was so bitterly wrong, yet it tasted so heavenly and right.

And it made Draco see that there wasn't a way out of this that wouldn't involve Harry, and although he had known this before, deep inside, denied and unheeded, it took the intensity of his kissing Harry to make him realise, understand, and accept.

So he had asked. It had been the hardest thing for him to do, but somehow desperation and fear got the better of him and forced the words out of his reluctant lips. And to his utter surprise, Harry had agreed, without any pompous fuss or malicious gloating. That touched a deepest nerve within him the way nothing else had ever done.

Maybe he had been wrong about Harry, all along. Maybe Harry had genuinely wanted to help him, as much as that seemed inconceivable, because Draco knew that he'd never have done such a thing had the situation been reversed. But, he reminded himself once again, Harry wasn't like him. This was what defined him as uniquely Harry, his trademark benevolence that seemed to come so naturally to him, which Draco had always scorned and sneered at. He never imagined he'd ever be able to appreciate this quality in Harry, until now.

Draco sat up in bed, reached for a sheet of parchment on his bedside table, and picked up his quill, the tip of it still moist with ink from a useful Self-Inking Charm he'd come across while extensively reading up. He set the nib against the creamy white paper, and wrote,

Meet me in the disused storage room on the fifth floor of the Astronomy Tower, after your Quidditch practice tonight.


A tentative glimmer of hopefulness rose within him as he folded the note into a neat square and slipped it into his pocket, intending to bring it down to the Owlery to have it delivered. The image of Harry once again flashed in Draco's mind, in particular that genuinely stunned expression he wore when Draco had touched him fleetingly, before they parted ways; and the memory lifted the bleak haze for a shimmer of a moment, and that was enough.

Perhaps Harry held the answers he had been searching too hard to find, and perhaps with Harry's help, things could finally slide back into place, and this horrible tangle of confusion would just disappear like a mist of morning dew at the break of the sunlight.

Draco leaned back onto the pillows, and closed his eyes, a faint silver light streaming behind his eyelids.

Perhaps he would be able to find a way out of this, after all.

Perhaps.

6 Missing Completion

You're incomplete until you're in love; then you're finished.

Harry showed the creased note to Hermione during dinner, unfolding it surreptitiously under the table and sliding it over to her. Hermione took it and discreetly read it, then passed it back to Harry, all the while without a change of expression.

"So, are you going to meet him?" Hermione asked in a low voice, so quietly that only Harry could hear her. She needn't have worried, though, since the scattered dinner conversation was noisy enough to drown out anything less than audible speech.

Harry nodded once, shoving the note back into his pocket. "I'll bring my wand along, just in case."

Hermione wasn't surprised at Harry's answer; somehow, even before he'd said anything, she already knew. In fact, even before Harry even showed her the note, she knew that should Malfoy ask Harry to meet again in private, Harry would agree. What still baffled her, however, was that Harry was actually entertaining the issue, instead of dismissing it with a wave of his hand as nothing more than the preposterous rubbish that Malfoy was so adept at throwing in their direction. Hermione's eyes narrowed; she was beginning to wonder if Malfoy had put Harry under the Imperius Curse.

"Are you feeling all right, Harry?" Her anxious concern showed in her voice. "You're acting really strangely about this whole thing, and you've got me worried. Are you sure Malfoy didn't put a spell on you, instead of the other way around?"

"No, he didn't hex me." Harry shook his head. Unless you count the sorcery of lips. "Besides, I can fight off the Imperius Curse, and he's not experienced enough to manage anything more advanced than that. I doubt he can even cast Imperius — not yet."

"I still have a bad feeling about this, Harry," Hermione warned, giving voice to her niggling doubts. "I wouldn't trust Malfoy to trim Crookshanks' claws, and that's a task that I would gladly hand over to almost anyone willing to be scratched half to death."

"I'll be careful," Harry promised.

Hermione took one look in his eyes and gave up trying to discourage him — there wasn't any use, since it was clear that Harry had already made up his mind, and probably no matter what she said short of threatening to tell Ron or Dumbledore about the whole deal, Harry would be there in the disused storage room later that night.

To quell her own uneasiness, Hermione decided to make sure that Harry wasn't being subjected to some dark curse Malfoy put on him, which denied him of conscious control over his actions. She knew a useful Dark-Sensing Spell, which could gauge if a person was under the influence of any sort of dark magical charm or spell and return either a positive or negative result.

When Harry was leaning over to talk to Seamus about the match-day arrangements for the Gryffindor-Slytherin clash, Hermione took out her wand and furtively passed it down the length of Harry's body, whispering the Sensing Spell under her breath, carefully watching for the result.

The tip of her wand glowed a pearly white, then faded to a dull green, which signalled affirmatively that everything was fine and nothing was amiss. Harry was spell-free — that was a relief, to some extent, though not quite a consolation. The question that still begged answering was, Why?

Hermione thought for a moment, then decided it was pointless to ask Harry about it now — firstly, he was clearly adamant about going to meet Malfoy that night; and secondly, she somehow had a feeling that even Harry didn't know the answer to that question.

* * * * * * *

As the late afternoon sun blazed in all its glory across the sky, a rare burst of colour in the spell of bleak, wintry weather in the past days and weeks, Harry headed back to the Gryffindor dormitory to gather his things for Quidditch practice that evening. The schedule was even tighter now that the crucial game had been pushed forward — his team, although more than a worthy match for the Slytherins, needed all the practice they could squeeze in time for.

Slytherin had a strong defence, Harry noted as he took a clean set of Quidditch robes out of his drawer. That was their asset, which was all the more reason for him to throw everything they had into attack. Granted, the victory hinged more heavily on his ability to catch the Snitch and end the game, but Harry had never been one to play on the back foot.

Based on past matches, Harry's chances of catching the Snitch were good, almost certain if percentages and ratios were all there was to it. To date, he had faced off against Malfoy in a total of four Quidditch games, each season since their second year, and Harry had caught the Snitch every single time. He remembered the intoxication of victory, the sheer triumph each time his fingers closed over the fluttering speck of gold, each time he turned and saw Malfoy's face, the crestfallen expression twisted with anger, resentment, and unmistakable hatred.

Harry's thoughts gradually strayed from plotting Quidditch strategy to evaluating Malfoy's flying talent — even though he was a much swifter, quicker flier than Malfoy was, Harry couldn't help grudgingly admitting that he liked the way Malfoy flew. In fact, he even secretly thought that Malfoy had a nicer flying style than himself. Harry had seen himself in flight on several occasions, either on replay mode on a pair of Omnioculars or in moving wizard photos, and he noticed that he seemed to hurtle through the air, though with pinpoint accuracy — his body would be bent forward in perfect alignment with his broom, and he would cut through the air like a knife through soft butter, though with about as much sophistication as exactly that.

Harry remembered the first time he saw Draco fly — back in the first year, when they were only eleven and still wide-eyed and innocent and childish, when Malfoy had stolen Neville's Remembrall and taken to forbidden flight on one of the school broomsticks. He, of course, had done the natural thing and had gone after Malfoy. And that moment had served to fuel an intense, bitter rivalry between them which had far from simmered, much less faded, even six years later.

Still, Harry could recall how privately impressed he was as he sped after Malfoy, thinking He wasn't lying, he could fly well — there was a certain arrogance and careless grace in the way Malfoy guided his broomstick through the whistling air, precise and elegant at the same time, and maybe Malfoy wasn't the world's best flier, but he certainly flew with an altogether unique beauty and poise. Just like everything else about Malfoy, really. His encompassing ability to exude scorn and confidence so effortlessly, along with that enviable calm and refinement and stylishness which was so exclusively Malfoy.

And this all the more highlighted the brief flashes of raw emotion that flickered and waned in Draco's eyes like daytime lightning, because it fractured the composed veneer which Draco normally projected so flawlessly. It was like the hiss of thin ice on the verge of breaking, as the liquid truth beneath seeped through the spidery cracks — and it was unnerving, almost frightening to watch.

Harry rummaged in his bedside drawer for a bar of Honeydukes chocolate to nibble on, since he would be missing dinner later — when suddenly, his fingers came into contact with the cool touch of hard glass, which clinked like hollow metal as it jostled against the other assorted contents of the drawer. Harry's fingers inquisitively closed over it, its shape familiar, and drew it out of the drawer.

It was the empty glass vial.

Harry stared at it for a moment, the glass cool against the palm of his hand. He had completely forgotten about its existence, more preoccupied with the effect of the love potion than the physical source which had contained it. Now he held it up for closer inspection, noticing the faint traces of vivid red still staining the interior surface of the closed vial, crimson testimony of a poison that ran deeper than blood.

Or so Malfoy said. And so he had believed.

Harry chewed on his lower lip thoughtfully, and after pondering a moment longer, he slipped the small glass vial into his pocket as he picked up his Quidditch things and exited the dormitory. There was no way for him to verify the nature of the mysterious residue, but it was about as tangible a piece of evidence as he had in possession, and he thought Hermione would find it very interesting, indeed.

* * * * * * *

Draco quietly left the Slytherin common room shortly before dinner, and made his way out of the main school building toward the Quidditch pitch in the distance. It looked so very different, when viewed from ground level across horizontal terrain, as compared to the spectacular bird's eye view afforded from the perspective of the skies above.

When he flew, his surroundings would smudge and flow like a shaken palette, a canvas of natural abstract art painted all around him in a dazzle of brilliant colour, as he spun and turned over and over on his broomstick. The lush green pitch below would blend seamlessly with the blue sky above, one moment at his feet and the next, spinning overhead, and this almost dizzying spectrum of colour was what he found most beautiful, at times almost distractingly so, because it mirrored the exact way life was — never clear lines of black and white, instead varying shades of grey and every other colour of the rainbow.

But as he approached the pitch, Draco was struck by how very different it looked from where he stood now — it was so... typical, and grounded, the landscape as if forged by gravity and not imagination. Which made perfect sense, since he was standing with both feet rooted on the earth, and the pitch really did look quite sad, almost pathetic, and it didn't help that the torrential winter rains were cutting deep ridges of erosion in the soil, which was why it badly needed resurfacing.

But of course, he didn't come here to rue the state of the Quidditch pitch, although its sorry condition did tinge his mood with more bleakness. Truthfully, he wasn't really sure why he had come all the way down here, except that he knew Harry had Quidditch practice this evening.

Draco selected a shaded spot partially obscured in the shadow of Gryffindor Tower looming over him, and settled down on the grassy ground, leaning against the warm concrete flagstones of the wall behind him. He was hidden from view by a sharp bend, although he still had a fairly unobstructed vision of the Quidditch pitch from where he sat.

Harry was there, together with the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, all of them junior students, most of them sixth-years. Draco could see Harry talking to them, likely briefing them on the game strategy for the upcoming match. Harry gestured and pointed, giving directions to each player, who in turn nodded and sometimes appeared to ask a question back in clarification. Not long after, the small group dispersed and mounted their broomsticks, kicking off from the ground to the skies above.

It was interesting to watch Harry fly from a perspective that wasn't on eye level with him, Draco mused to himself as his eyes followed Harry's swift progression from one end of the pitch to the other, doing his warm-up laps as he raced back and forth between the two hoops on either end of the field with amazing speed. Time and again, Draco envied Harry's sheer velocity on a broomstick, while being able to maintain precision and lightning-quick reflexes at the same time.

Harry really knew how to fly. Not just be able to zip around on a broomstick and negotiate right-angled corners without falling off, but really fly in the complete, truest sense of the word — as if he could shed the skin that gravity held sway over, as if the sky wasn't the limit but only the basis of so much more worth exploring. Even during matches, it occurred to Draco that Harry didn't seem like he was flying only to compete, but rather also for the pure love of it, and somehow the wind caught him and took him where his instincts led, as if catching the Snitch was only a minor satisfaction in the sheer pleasure of flying, just a shimmer of gold on a horizon that had no bounds.

Of course, Draco could never fly like that. The weight of expectation and impossible standards clipped his wings of flight, leaving him trawling the realm of sky just below heaven, and no matter how he tried, he was always one space below Harry.

Draco remembered the first time he had played against Harry in their second year, and had lost, the first of many subsequent failures. The humiliation of being defeated despite having a superior broomstick was still vivid, which had in turn shifted the bulk of the blame to his own capabilities instead. He remembered Marcus Flint yelling at him, saying It was on top of your head and you couldn't bloody see it! You can't outshine Potter even with the best damn broom in the world!

And at that moment the spark of hatred which had ignited in their first encounter aboard the Hogwarts Express had erupted into seething scarlet flames that burned eternal, stoked and kindled by anger and resentment and bitterness that only Harry had been able to invoke. It was the very seed of his loathing for Harry; envy twisted with contempt, like serpents of fiery emerald binding chains of mingled hatred and disgusted admiration around him.

Then again, when had it been any different? When had he ever been better than Harry? When did he have something Harry didn't? The answer was, never. And now, the something that he didn't have, which he wanted more than anything else, was Harry, and this raging yearning filled every space between each heartbeat.

Draco stared at Harry and tried to remember all the things about him that he used to hate, the loathing that used to come so naturally; but now it was just a strange, detached remembrance, like a faint twitch of déjà vu, a whispered thread from a past that seemed too far removed to be real. Now, all he could see was Harry, the way he truly was without the distortion of the bitter veil of jealousy and enmity, and he saw the way Harry smiled, sincere and encouraging, the way his slim hands moved over the handle of his Firebolt with careful pride, gripping it as it yielded to his complete control, they way Harry's lithe body leaned over his slender broomstick as he soared downward in a steep dive, the wind streamlining past him with fluid resistance, and Draco watched, mesmerised —

"What the— !"

Ron appeared from nowhere, sharply rounding the bend and almost tripping over Draco's outstretched legs, just managing to keep his balance and prevent a rather unceremonious tumble to the ground. He whirled around and stared at Draco, incredulity quickly changing into plain contempt as recognition set in.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Ron spat angrily, sparks of fury igniting in his blue eyes.

Draco recovered swiftly, and matched Ron glare for glare. "I'm sitting down minding my own business. Not against the rules, is it?"

Ron's eyes glinted dangerously. "Don't give me that crap." He advanced on Draco, who had risen to his feet and was carelessly dusting off his robes, carrying off the air of nonchalance flawlessly. "I know perfectly well what you're doing here, Malfoy."

"Then asking questions you already know the answers to is generally not very productive, Weasley." Draco's eyes shone with malice. "But that does explain the arrested mental development."

"You're spying on our Quidditch strategy," Ron accused, his face flushing with rage, making his freckles stand out like specks of hot charcoal on flushed skin. "You son of a b—"

"I am not spying on your stupid strategy, Weasley," Draco hissed, cutting Ron off. His pale face coloured slightly as Ron's words touched on a sensitive nerve. "Besides, there isn't even much of a strategy to speak of, since your only ace is that Potter can catch the Snitch and that really can't be called a tactic at all, can it? And don't you dare insult my mother, you—"

"Get lost, Malfoy." Ron's voice was spiked with steel. "And don't think I won't make you leave. You're not very menacing without your two henchmen by your side, are you now?"

"Save it, Weasley." Draco smoothly stepped back, and his tone was calm and unfazed. "I can do better than picking a fight with someone who's too lousy to even make his house's Quidditch team." He gave Ron a malevolent sneer. "But then again, the sidelines are where you belong, anyway."

Ron's fists were clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned a deathly white, and he was shaking with fury and frustration for lack of a retort. Draco's smug smile pierced him through, invoking something past the realm of anger and rage — hatred, deep and intense, sparking like electricity in Ron's eyes of metallic sapphire. When Ron spoke again, however, his voice was amazingly even, though thinly controlled.

"One day, Malfoy," he hissed between gritted teeth, his tone low and sliced with antipathy. "On the day you finally fall with a mighty crash, know that it is exactly what you deserve." Ron's voice was chillingly quiet. "And know that I will be the first one there to watch."

"My pleasure, Weasley." Draco's voice dripped with acid sarcasm. "Anything to add some meaning to your miserable life. It's the least I can do for charity."

They stood and glared at each other for a long moment, mutual venom in their stares — then Draco turned and strode off, away from Gryffindor Tower, without so much as a backward glance. His black robes billowed behind him as he walked, his gait measured and graceful, the wind streamlining the fine velvet that showed off the slender cut of his torso, and he finally disappeared around the bend.

Ron stood where he was, rooted to the spot for a few long minutes even after Draco was gone. The caustic words still lingered like toxic air, and as Ron drew a calming breath he could still hear the gloating tone of Draco's voice, taunting him — and what hurt most was the silent defeat he'd had to concede, because Draco spoke the truth in all its painful glory, the truth that he always fell this much short of the best, be it in Quidditch or grades or financial standing.

The corrosive rage fed a long-harboured resentment within him, and Ron bit down on his lower lip in helpless frustration, and closed his eyes for a moment as he thought of how much he bitterly envied Draco Malfoy, for having everything that he couldn't have, and for constantly rubbing his face in it; the wrath trickled into a dark pool of vengefulness that stirred deep within him, dammed up inside his soul.

One day, Ron thought grimly, slowly turning his face toward the Quidditch pitch, where he could vaguely make out the figures of the Gryffindor team darting across the darkened skies. All of a sudden Ron found he had lost the mood and enthusiasm to analyse Quidditch strategy — it began to hurt, a detached sort of ache in the pit of his stomach, just to watch the team in the freedom of flight, soaring the skies, because he secretly had badly wanted to be one of them, but hadn't made the cut.

He'd made himself believe that he was satisfied with the strategizing role that Harry had offered him instead, probably more out of their friendship than anything else. He'd tried not to think about the fact that he didn't just want to plot Quidditch, he wanted to play it — until Malfoy had just mercilessly reminded him of his inferiority. It seemed that only Malfoy could see transparently through his façade of woeful acceptance, laying bare the dark, wistful sadness within him that everyone else, even Harry, failed to notice.

And he hated Malfoy for that.

One day, I'll get back at him for everything he's done to me, Ron swore inwardly, a fervent oath to unfulfilled revenge.And then he'll be the one to regret.

Ron stormed back to the Gryffindor common room, feeling distinctly unsettled and extremely irritable, and found Hermione sitting alone at a table, deeply absorbed in a thick book laid open in front of her. Next to her stood a curious looking glass container, the interior dabbled with traces of red, placed carefully on top of a wad of tissue like a valuable piece of delicate evidence. But Ron barely noticed it as he flopped down on the chair opposite Hermione.

"Do you know who I caught lurking around the Quidditch pitch just now, while Harry and the others were having practice?" Ron fumed, glaring at Hermione as if she was actually the one responsible for sending out spies to loiter around the field. "Malfoy. He was hiding in the shadows spying out our Quidditch strategy! That sneaky little..." Ron rattled off a litany of unpleasant and vulgar names.

"Ron," Hermione cut in warningly, glancing sharply up from her readings. "Cut that out. Why are you getting so worked up about this, anyway? It's not like our strategy a state secret or something. There are only so many different strategies and I bet they're all already listed in Quidditch Through The Ages."

"That's not the point!" said Ron crossly, still looking flushed. "Malfoy's probably planning some horrid devious cheating tactic to wreck our strategy! I'll bet he has a companion edition that's along the lines of 1001 Ways To Sabotage Your Opponent's Quidditch Strategy. Bet he tried to submit 'dress up as a Dementor' to the editors, too."

"Take it easy," Hermione said, albeit distractedly, her attention still on the page she had been reading before Ron's interruption. "Don't get all hot and bothered about it — you have a tendency to overreact when it comes to this kind of thing."

"I do not!" Ron replied mutinously. "But incidentally, I think that catching our sworn rival lurking around spying on our strategy more than warrants a violent reaction. Preferably directed at Malfoy." Ron balled his fist and made a nasty face.

Hermione glanced up, and hesitated before asking as casually as she could, "Did Harry see Malfoy?"

Ron shook his head. "Thank goodness he didn't, or he wouldn't have been able to concentrate throughout the rest of the practice session."

Probably, Hermione agreed silently, surreptitiously returning her gaze to the book. But not for the reason that you're thinking. However, she wisely said nothing; other than the fact that Harry would likely be very angry with her if she told Ron about the love potion fiasco, she knew better than to stoke the flames of the volatile state that Ron was already in.

While Ron continued to mutter ominously about Malfoy's grievance, Hermione returned her concentration to her book, which detailed the characteristics of various 'advanced potions'. She was hoping to glean more information about the unknown substance in the vial that Harry had given her.

There wasn't a wealth of information about the topic, and most of the conclusive tests involved experiments that would have to be conducted in a Potions lab. However, minor references here and there, such as "the blood-coloured potion" and "has natural acidic properties, thus should always be concocted in a glass jar at room temperature" all hinted strongly that the remnant potion in the vial was what it claimed to be — a love potion.

Ron finally caught sight of the glass vial, and eyed it curiously. "What's that? What're you reading? Don't tell me you've started on Snape's term project — that isn't due for two months!"

"No, it isn't." Hermione shot him a look, and in a slightly miffed tone of voice, "but by the way, I have started on the Potions project — don't forget, it counts for one-third of our final mark!"

"I hate Potions," Ron digressed to grumble, the reminder of the assignment doing nothing to lift his irritable mood. "What does it matter if I do it properly, anyway? Snape hates my guts, he's just going to nit-pick for any errors he can possibly find, and mark me down for those." Ron still eyed the glass vial with interest, though, and pressed on, "So what are you doing, then? What's the jar for?"

"Oh, it's just some additional Potions readings," Hermione replied as vaguely as she could, waving her hand dismissively as she furtively turned a few pages forward so that Ron would see that she'd been dwelling on the love potions chapter. She nodded at the glass vial, and continued, "that's just a sample of a special sort of potion which I obtained from Snape — it's from the list on page 867 of the textbook." She wagered that Ron wouldn't actually bother to go and check up the textbook, it being Potions readings and, well, on page 867.

Ron groaned. "I can barely catch up with the assigned readings for two weeks ago, let alone additional ones." He shook his head, as if baffled. "I don't understand how you can be so enthusiastic about Potions, Herm. It's ghastly — I wish I could've dropped it back in the third year. I would've taken Arithmancy over Potions any time at all." He looked at the clock on the wall — it was quickly approaching eight o'clock, and the skies would be completely dark outside by now. "Harry should be back soon."

"He told me that he'll be going to see one of the professors after Quidditch practice about some late homework," Hermione quickly interjected, suddenly remembering where Harry was really going after practice. Harry probably trusted her to keep him covered, and although she felt bad lying to Ron, she knew that it was the most sensible thing to do, in the circumstances. "So he'll probably not be back till later. Why don't we get started on homework first?"

At the mention of the dreaded H-word, Ron quickly got to his feet — he rarely ever voluntarily yielded to the burden of studying until the exams loomed and he had no other choice. And at the moment, he was in sulky enough a mood without needing a horrid Transfiguration essay to achieve that effect.

"Um, I think I'll go take a shower first," Ron said evasively, hurriedly heading toward the staircase leading to the boys' dorm, to get a change of clothes. "See you later, Hermione."

Hermione grinned at Ron's transparent excuse — she knew the suggestion of doing homework would send Ron scuttling off, anyway. She knew him all too well. Secretly, she welcomed his departure so that she could keep researching without having to be discreet about it.

Hermione was intrigued by what she'd found out about love potions so far — little was revealed about exactly how a love potion could be concocted, since its formula was restricted from publication in school textbooks by Ministry educational regulations — but she'd read quite a lot about their properties and effects. Without a doubt, love potions were extremely powerful magic, darkly fascinating because technically, it didn't flaunt any of the laws set forth in the 1875 Charter Restricting Forbidden Magic — it didn't physically torture the victim like Cruciatus did, or allow one person to consciously control another, like Imperius, although there were similarities between the two. The Ministry actually had to enact a separate Special Section for it in 1879, whereby the use of love potions was expressly forbidden, although due to legislative constraints, the punishment for breaking the Special Section rules was not as grave as for other banned magical spells.

Hermione drummed her fingers thoughtfully against the edge of the desk. It now appeared that the unlikely event of Draco Malfoy actually be honest may actually be true, after all. But deep down inside she still had her misgivings about Harry's bizarre, implicit trust in Draco, and a non-conclusive vial stained with what only appeared to be love potion was not going to change her mind in a hurry.

Hermione sighed and sat back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. Be careful, Harry, she thought fervently, and even her mental tone was dense with worry. If it's true that Malfoy *is* under a love spell, then things are going to become more complicated than we can ever imagine.


+ + + + +

Harry was feeling hot and exhausted as he dismounted his Firebolt and swung it over his shoulder, heading in the direction of the broom shed. He was alone, having dismissed his team about ten minutes ago; he'd told them to go off first on the pretext of wanted to practise flying a few laps across the pitch before calling it a night. He didn't want them to see him heading toward the Astronomy Tower, although he had an excuse ready that he was finishing his star chart in the event someone did.

As he approached the broom shed, a twinge of memories rose within him, unbidden; he remembered talking to Draco here, the day after their first encounter in the Forest, and he recalled how privately surprised he'd been to see Malfoy looking so harassed, almost distraught. Ever since then, Draco's calm, unruffled veneer had never quite returned, although distinctive flashes of arrogance and defiance flared every so often, like light sparking off shards of a cracked mirror.

He could almost hear Hermione's voice in his head: I still have a bad feeling about this, Harry.

Harry vaguely wondered why he wasn't feeling as doubtful and uneasy as he should be, when even Hermione, who always tended to see the good in other people, was disapproving of his actions. Harry didn't even want to think about how Ron would react. Ron'd probably... yes, he really didn't want to think of what Ron would say, if he found out.

Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that Malfoy had kissed him twice, and that wasn't counting the dreams that he was being plagued with — Harry didn't want to delve into the recollection of those, not so much because they wasn't a pleasant experience than because he was appalled at himself for actually dreaming of kissing Malfoy.

Harry looked at his watch; the luminous hands glowed the way Crookshanks' eyes did, informing him that it was already half-past eight. Draco had not specified a time to meet, only that he was to go to the storage room after Quidditch practice. Harry hoped that Draco would already be there.

Keeping a wary eye out for Mrs Norris, Harry sidled along the darkened corridor on the fifth floor of the Astronomy tower, which was empty and eerily quiet, his soft footsteps echoing in time with his heartbeat, like the fluttering wings of a Golden Snitch amplified a dozen times. He counted off the doors as he passed them, knowing that the storage room was the sixth door on the right, and finally drew to a halt in front of what he hoped was the correct door.

Harry knocked softly — it was a conditioned reflex, each time before he opened a door — and turned the knob, cautiously peering in. The small room was suffused with the warm glow of a magical candle that would never burn down to a stump, and in the flickering play of light and shadows Draco sat on a worn-out leather armchair near the centre of the room, twirling his wand between his fingers, and reading what appeared to be a very tattered book laid on his lap.

Draco looked up when Harry slid into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. "You're late," he remarked neutrally, emotion absent from his voice.

"I am not late." Harry stepped closer to where Draco was sitting, finding the temperature in the room distinctly warm — perhaps it was the Quidditch practice. Or something else. "You just said to come here after practice."

"Practice ended at eight o'clock, didn't it?"

"I was flying a few laps across the pitch." Harry glared at Draco. "And since when do I have to account to you for my whereabouts?"

Draco looked as if he was about to say something, but thought the better of it; he simply shrugged, and carefully closed the flimsy-looking book. "All right, whatever. What matters is you're here, anyway." Draco got up, and they were standing a few feet apart. "I need to talk to you about some things."

"Wait." Harry saw Draco glance at him in surprise; he composed his thoughts, and took a deep breath. "Before I agree to anything else, Malfoy, I want to know everything about what's going on. Some evidence, if you've got any to show."

The expression in Draco's eyes hardened imperceptibly, and they shone like tarnished silver. "You still don't believe me, do you?" There was a note of bitterness in his voice. "You still don't trust me."

"This may sound harsh, Malfoy, but you haven't given me much reason to trust you since the day I knew you." Harry's voice was firm, yet not unkind. "The fact that you actually derive a warped enjoyment out of seeing me get into trouble does shake my confidence somewhat."

"That was before." Draco's voice was almost painfully soft, and he lifted his eyes to look straight at Harry. "I don't feel the same way about you anymore," his lips twisted slightly with the irony of his words, "to say the least."

Harry shook his head. "I'm not saying I don't believe you, Malfoy, but you have to give me a solid reason to believe you. Because if I'm going to help you with this, the least I must have is a complete belief that this whole love potion thing is actually true."

"Is actually true?" Draco repeated incredulously, mild sparks of emotion flaring in his eyes. "After what's happened, you still—" Draco broke off in mid-sentence and closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath; he was visibly trying to keep calm. When he opened them again, they were glazed over with a forced impassiveness. "You—you've seen the effect you have on me, Potter. And you think I've been faking it all the while?"

"I never said that." The muted pain that Draco was trying so hard to conceal, yet was plainly evident to Harry, struck a nerve deep inside him. "I just need to know everything about what you're asking me to do, Malfoy, and that includes an assurance that this whole condition actually exists. Is that too much to ask? Am I supposed to believe you just based on your word alone?"

As soon as the words spilled from his lips, Harry instantly regretted them, even as he saw the veiled hurt wash across Draco's face, pale and vulnerable in the dim light, even as those grey eyes froze and shuttered up, returning the tentative connection between them back to the level of mutual distrust.

When he was away from Draco, it was hard to remember the depth of the way Draco had affected him, as logical and sane thought took over; like a forgotten inspiration, a memory that didn't seem quite real. But now, in the same room as Draco, feeling the almost palpable waves of despair and helplessness radiating from the other boy, Harry remembered why he'd actually agreed to offer his help in the first place, remembered the same quiet desperation in Draco's eyes when they were standing so close together in the dark corridor en route to the Slytherin dormitory...

Draco broke the silence first; a measured, careful expression wiped his face clean of the stirring emotions that churned within. "No, you don't have to trust my word alone." His voice was oddly level, and thoroughly vacant. "Actually, I asked you to come here because I wanted to show you something."

Draco moved easily forward, and pressed the thin book he was holding into Harry's hands. Harry looked down at his palms; it was less of a book than a stack of parchments untidily arranged together and none too securely bound with a piece of string. It reminded Harry of the codices used in ancient times; he gingerly turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. There was no title inscription on the front page, the feel of which was dusty like worn leather. Harry opened the book, and the crisp pages rustled; he wondered if the binding was going to unravel, and so held the spine of the book firmly between his thumb and index finger.

Draco said nothing, just reached over flipped the pages of the book forward for Harry, quickly finding the page he was looking for with familiar ease. He tapped his finger lightly, and nodded toward the open page. "Here's the spellbook I used, and that's the Love Potion instructions." He wryly indicated at the preceding page. "That was the Loss of Substance Potion which I had originally intended on making. And if you say anything along the lines of 'I told you so', Potter, I swear I'll—"

"I wasn't going to say that," Harry snapped, though not in an infuriated tone. He was poring over the page with rapt interest. "Just shut up and let me read, will you?"

To Harry's continued amazement, Draco obeyed, and fell silent. The room was completely quiet save for the merry crackling of the magical flame. Harry intently scanned the words written on the page, which he was reading with a good measure of difficulty as the writing was overly fanciful, coupled with the fact that the dark blue ink was badly faded and smudged, as if the book had been washed several times and hung out to dry.

There was a long list of ingredients, presumably the constituents required for the Love Potion. Fortunately (or perhaps, unfortunately), the ingredients list was the clearest part of the page — below that was a single sentence, in a language Harry assumed was Latin: Traicit et fati litora magnus amor. A little ways further down the page was some more writing, which Harry leaned closer and strained to read.

It was written like a poem, or verse — indented an inch or so from the side margin of the page. However, the words were very barely visible, like tendrils of ghost writing, although when Harry squinted for long enough he could just about make out the first two lines, before the verse abruptly terminated in a sharp linear rip that serrated the bottom of the page. The rest of whatever was written was lost in whatever had become of the missing shred.

Harry made an exasperated sound. "For crying out loud, Malfoy, this damn book is falling apart and you're still crazy enough to use its spells? How if only half a spell is listed and the other half is missing? You're lucky you didn't splinch yourself!"

"Yes, and ending up in love with you is a much better option," Draco remarked sarcastically, shooting Harry a sharp look, "because after all, I could have splinched myself instead! And that would be so much worse, now wouldn't it."

"Oh shut up," Harry said crossly, returning Draco's glare, "and tell me what it says down there at the bottom of the page."

Draco craned his neck forward, and his hair brushed lightly against Harry's cheek as he did so. "It's a short poem, I think. It says, 'A chemical emotion, falsely real; the power to hurt, and the power to heal.'" He paused, and drew back slightly.

"And?" Harry prompted impatiently.

"And the composition of air is made out of some percentage of oxygen and other invisible molecules that aren't quite as useful to us."

"What?" Harry blinked, leaning forward to peer at the page, pushing his glasses up his nose. "It actually says that?"

"Of course not," Draco snapped, rolling his eyes. "I can't read off the page, now can I?"

"So that's all it says? Or is there more to it?" Harry questioned. "And what does it mean, anyway?"

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "How the hell should I know if there's more to it? If there is, it makes no difference — it's been torn off, anyway. It might just be a two-line verse, since it seems fairly self-contained — I mean, it rhymes and all. Might be a minimalist sort of artistic git who wrote it." He paused, and looked squarely up at Harry, who was still puzzling over the book with curious interest, and spoke meaningfully, "But I think I can show you what it means."

Draco drew out a slender blade from the inner folds of his robes, took a bold step forward. He took the spellbook out of Harry's palm, dropping it onto the seat of the armchair; then he turned back and carefully pressed the hilt of the knife into Harry's hand, the pointed edge facing in his own direction. Harry stared at the knife, dumbfounded, as if the carved snakes on the intricately engraved hilt of the blade had suddenly become live serpents in his palm, and he looked up at Draco, nonplussed. "What's this?"

"It's a knife, Potter. What have you used to keep your fork company all these years?"

Before Harry could think up a reply to that, Draco abruptly pulled apart the collar of his own black robes, and yanked his left sleeve down his shoulder, partially baring his chest. His collarbone marked a defined ridge on the smooth curve leading down from his neck, a flawless stretch of pale, creamy skin, which seemed to glow with its own unique radiance. Draco's shoulder was slim and angular, perfectly balanced with his lithe body frame, slender without being too thin.

Harry blinked, and eyed Draco warily. "Uh, Malfoy..."

His perplexed voice trailed off as Draco reached over and seized hold of his right wrist, the hand that was holding the knife; the blade glinted silver danger as Draco lifted it up, closer, bringing it just a whisper away from his own exposed neck, all the while never once breaking eye contact with Harry.

Now Harry was thoroughly confused, bordering alarm; he blinked again, bewildered. "Malfoy, what—"

Without warning, Draco gripped Harry's wrist tightly and pushed it downward in a swift, determined stroke; the blade glanced past the vulnerable curve of his neck, and slashed a deep oblique gash right across the left side of his chest. Vivid fresh blood blossomed forth, flowing down in narrow crimson rivulets and staining the green lining of his black robes.

"Oh my god!" Harry let out a horrified yell, and reflexively jerked his hand away from Draco's grip; Draco simultaneously released his hold, and the imbrued knife went clattering out of Harry's hand to the floor, specks of blood spitting from its blade, the hollow metallic clang followed by an even more deafening silence.

Harry staggered a few steps backward, reeling from the shock; he stared at Draco, utterly stunned. "What—" he spluttered, "What are you doing, Malfoy?" His eyes were wild and frantic with shock. "Oh god!"

Draco was completely unfazed, even with blood running from a deep wound across his chest. He completely ignored the bleeding, and instead stepped closer to Harry, who was still frozen with disbelief.

Draco smiled, although it was a very cool, almost sardonic smile, lined with bitterness on the edges. He reached over and grabbed hold of Harry's hand again, which was stiff and tensed, held almost protectively behind Harry's back. Harry resisted, but Draco was firm, and pulled Harry's hand forward, spreading open Harry's curled fingers with his own. Draco could feel the quivering pulse as he held Harry's wrist; he moved even closer, swallowing up the distance between them until he was so near Harry that he could feel the warmth of Harry's quickened breathing.

Then, he pressed Harry's open palm flat against the seething crimson slash on his own chest.

Harry let out another strangled gasp and tried to withdraw his hand, but Draco wouldn't let him; Harry suddenly felt a jet of ice cold lined with fire shoot through his hand. Like a sliver of energy, it exited his body through his palm, straight into Draco's wound, and it was the strangest sensation — not pain, but a deep, intense pulse, like a thousand heartbeats compressed into one.

Draco felt Harry's palm go limp in his grasp, his resistance faltering; Draco he closed his eyes as he felt the fiery cold rush into his body through the wound on his chest, almost as if his heart was rent open to lay exposed. The ice in his veins made him shiver, and he broke out in a cold sweat, feeling flushed — but this sensation was nothing like he'd ever felt before; instead of draining him, it felt invigorating, as if pouring life into his ebbing blood, infusing a certain power into him from within.

Harry couldn't tear his gaze away from where his palm seemed rooted by an unseen force; his eyes widened in utter surprise, and he stared as the wound on Draco's chest twitched beneath his fingers. The strangest thing was happening — the fresh crimson blood suddenly glazed dark red, and the inflamed flesh lining the open gash appeared to seal together. Before his startled eyes, the entire scarlet streak itself seemed to evaporate like water on heated metal, growing fainter and fainter until only a ghostly trace of dried blood remained, outlining a glistening silver scar.

Draco opened his eyes calmly; a vague emotion darted across his impassive features, softened with weariness. He glanced down at his own chest, and saw the scar standing in the place that the knife had sliced apart — it was now healed under Harry's trembling fingers, which were smeared with his rapidly drying blood.

He returned Harry's slack-jawed look with a wry smile. "It's as it says, Potter," he said softly, looking evenly into Harry's eyes, "the power to hurt..."

"...and the power to heal," Harry finished, in a hoarse whisper, the disbelief still stark on his face, mingled with disbelieving wonder and grim realisation. Harry continued to stare at the place where his hand rested on Draco's chest, tangled emotions flitting across his face like a storm of butterflies. He looked shaken; numbed, he finally drew his hand back, and Draco let him.

Draco pulled his sleeve back onto his healed shoulder and stepped back, putting a respectable distance between them once again. "It's the magic that binds us together, Potter. You can inflict a death stroke upon me, and you can heal it with the merest touch of your hand. If you hadn't done anything just now, I would have bled to death because of that wound."

Harry closed his eyes, rubbing his arm across his forehead, where a sheen of sweat had formed. "This is—" he shook his head, almost at a loss for words. "This is unimaginable."

"Is it?" Draco sounded mildly bemused. "Is it all that unimaginable? All through history down to this day millions of people have given themselves over to this sort of control, entirely voluntarily. They would sacrifice everything they had, suffer torture and die horrible deaths, all in the noble name of love. This potion just reproduces that exact effect, because the truth is, love can kill, and the one you love is the one who can hurt you deepest."

Harry still wore a dazed, mildly traumatised look, and he stared at his hand for a long moment, where Draco's blood was swiftly drying under his fingernails. He rubbed his hand futilely against his robes, not succeeding in removing much of the bloodstain.

Draco gave him a sidelong look — the last time he'd remembered Harry with such an expression of detached horror was back in their fourth year, during the Triwizard Cup finale melee, where Draco had glimpsed Harry being led off by the later-proven-impostor Mad-Eye Moody.

"Are you all right?" Draco asked quietly, watching Harry with an unwavering gaze.

Harry looked up abruptly, as if snapping out of his daze; the edges of his mouth curled upward tiredly. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Draco looked down at the front of his robes, where a patch of dark red mingled with the black fabric, and he grimaced. "Hell, my robes are in a mess. People are going to think I botched an attempt at suicide, or something."

Harry shot him a severe look. "Only that you used my hand to hold the knife. Literally."

Draco shrugged, as if such blood sport was an everyday occurrence with him. "You asked for proof, didn't you? So I gave you proof, in the flesh. Also literally."

A pensive silence followed, and it was becoming almost awkward when Harry finally spoke up. "You should go and get yourself cleaned up." He eyed Draco's shoulder, where his robes still hung loosely on his shoulder, pulled open at the collar. "Are you sure that ghastly thing has completely healed? I don't want you bleeding all the way back to your dorm."

"True, that wouldn't go too well with the Hogwarts décor." Draco tilted his head, a small smile on his face. "Would have worked better if we were in this castle back in the medieval times, wouldn't it? Trails of blood all over the place were a sign of efficient butchering back then. Ah, the good old times."

"Stop it, Malfoy." Harry shuddered as he turned and walked toward the door. "Such comments don't exactly make me feel comfortable being alone in the same room with you, you know."

"Tell me, when do you ever feel comfortable being alone in the same room as me?"

"Well, it helps a little if you're not enthusiastically raving about hacking people to bits. I've seen quite enough blood for one night." Harry had reached out his hand to turn the doorknob, when Draco called out softly to him,

"Wait."

Harry looked around, and Draco walked over to where he stood. Draco's expression was one of suppressed intensity, and his eyes were warmed with a strange yet familiar earnest. Harry held his gaze, silently questioning, and he felt a twitch of anticipation stir inside him, a formless expectation.

"Are you convinced, now?" Draco's voice was even, and bore no reproach — in fact, Harry could sense the tone of resignation woven between the quiet words.

Harry took a deep breath, and nodded once. "Yes."

Harry actually felt bad, almost guilty, for having pushed Draco to the extent that he had to slice his chest just to convince him that the situation with the love potion was indeed true. And seeing the way Draco had trusted him, the reckless decisiveness with which Draco had swung the knife held in Harry's own hand downward, without even the slightest trace of hesitation — it was as if Draco completely believed, without a shadow of a doubt, that Harry could heal him, and would.

To think he used to hate me. Harry thought introspectively.And I hated him, too. How things change.

Draco bit his lip, looking plainly at Harry; he hesitated, and then started to ask, "And do you t—"

"Yes."

"—take me as your lawfully wedded?" Draco raised his eyebrow with a teasing look, a devious smile making the troubled expression on his face disappear like mist in sunlight. He shook his head in mock astonishment. "My, Potter, I had no idea you'd agree so readily."

Harry gave him a narrowed look. "Very funny, Malfoy."

Draco responded by reaching over and taking Harry's hand off the doorknob, and he slid a silver ring onto Harry's fourth finger; then he offered a serene smile and took a small step backwards.

Harry gawked at the ring that Draco had placed on his hand. "You're not actually serious."

Draco nodded solemnly. "Gryffindor's most eligible bachelor is now officially off the market."

Harry stared at the ring — it was embellished with a row of tiny, sparkling jewels, alternate crystalline violet and deep green, flawlessly set in a band of polished silver that glowed almost white. It certainly looked very real, and expensive, if it wasn't actually so. "What's this for, Malfoy?"

"It's for you," Draco said simply. "Besides showing you the spellbook, I wanted to give you this."

"Why?"

"You said yes, remember?" Draco deadpanned. "Too bad for all the broken-hearted Gryffindor girls."

"Be serious, Malfoy."

Draco's smile faded, and he sobered. "It's a ring that belonged to my mother, which she gave me when I had to leave home to come here to Hogwarts. It's set with crystals of emerald and amethyst — they're supposed to have protective powers against evil, and are used to help focus thought." He levelled Harry's gaze. "But I have no need of it now, since, as you've just seen, you have the ability to very conveniently kill me, if you wanted to."

Harry still looked dubiously at the ring. "And so you want me to wear it, instead."

Draco said nothing, just took hold of Harry's hand once more and drew it closer, examining the ring where it encircled Harry's finger. "Amethyst is supposed to heal, bringing protection and clarity of mind. Emerald repels evil and—" Draco looked up at Harry, tilting his head contemplatively, "well, it brings out the colour of your eyes."

Draco let go of Harry's hand, and moved back calmly; Harry blinked, and could think of nothing to say. He looked expectantly at Draco, but the other boy had already averted his eyes and turned away.

Draco opened the door, and held it open for Harry to exit first. "Keep the ring properly, will you? It's bloody expensive, and it's my mother's. Which is why it's probably the only piece of jewellery I have that doesn't have 'Malfoy' engraved on it."

"What, so that 'if found, please return to owner'?" Harry rolled his eyes, stepping out of the room. "Because if you didn't have the family name inscribed on, people won't know who it belonged to and might just about pocket it for themselves?"

"Shut up, Potter," Draco snapped under his breath, as he soundlessly closed the door to the storage room after checking that everything inside was in original order. "You're just jealous because you don't have enough jewellery to send to have your name carved on."

"Oh, so that's the reason — bulk discounts."

"Quit it, Potter, before I take the ring back and then you'll have no protection against the wicked ones."

"Just walk a little further away from me and the same effect would be achieved."

They reached the stairwell and began to descend it in silence; halfway down, Harry suddenly remembered the upcoming Quidditch match, which was only five days away, it currently being Friday night. He turned to Draco. "Do you know that the Gryffindor-Slytherin match has been advanced to the coming Wednesday?"

The shadows shielded Draco's expression, which seemed to darken imperceptibly. "I know. Finnigan told me."

"So..." Harry trailed off questioningly.

"So hopefully we can fix this before the match." Draco answered shortly; his voice was clipped, and he didn't sound as confident as he usually did. "I'll try and think of something."

"You've figured out a plan?"

"No," Draco seemed rather agitated, "but I will come up with something." He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself more than Harry. "And— and if you've got any ideas, let me know."

To Harry, that was about as positive an admission that Draco was still clueless about what to do next. Draco Malfoy, as he knew, was never one to ask for help unless he was well and truly hedged in with an urgent need to get out. He'd seen it before, when they were alone in the corridor yesterday — the waves of quiet desperation, all too evident in the way Draco looked away, in the tightness of his voice.

They exited the Astronomy Tower, and reached the parting of the ways; Harry was going back to Gryffindor Tower while Draco was taking the stone stairway down the Slytherin dungeons.

"Well, I'll see what I can do." Harry turned to Draco, and suddenly thought of how the shadows that fell across Draco's face complemented his fair complexion and light hair very well. It was a darkly pretty contrast, one which he'd never quite noticed before, probably due to the fact that he didn't make a frequent habit of strolling around with Malfoy at night.

Draco merely nodded, though there was a muted sadness in his eyes. "All right." Then he abruptly turned and walked away, slipping off to the stone staircase by the side, which led to the Slytherin dungeons.

Harry stood for a few moments, watching Draco leave; then he turned in the opposite direction, walking back to his dorm, and troubled thoughts filled with knives and rings and blood and Draco accompanied him all the way back to Gryffindor Tower.

7 Faithful Scars

Then shall you know the wounds invisible
That love's keen arrows make.

There were no classes on Saturday morning, and as lunchtime approached, Harry found himself curled up in a corner by the fireplace. His brow was furrowed with what some might call an intelligent frown as he tried to concentrate on the words of the book spread open in front of him, which blathered on in shameless run-on sentences with no sign of a full-stop anywhere on the horizon.

Ron had insisted on going down to the Quidditch pitch to spy on the Slytherin strategy, since they were booked for practice that morning. Ever since last night when he'd returned to the dormitory, and this morning all the way through breakfast, Harry had listened to Ron seethe about finding Malfoy lurking around the pitch 'spying'. Harry didn't try to dissuade him from his little excursion, since he wanted to talk to Hermione in private about the events that had transpired in the storage room.

Hermione was sitting next to him, absorbed in reading; at this point, when Harry had given up actually reading text and was just scanning for the phrase 'love potion', she looked up and asked, "So that's all the book said? The Latin phrase Traicit et fati litora magnus amor?"

"And that two-line verse," Harry nodded at the piece of paper lying between them, where he had written out as much as he could remember of what was legible in the spellbook (Draco had taken it back with him). "That's all there was — anything else had been ripped away."

"Hmm," said Hermione, chewing daintily on the tip of her quill, "well, I can't seem to find even one reference to this Latin phrase in any of the magical books. I've spent the last hour checking indexes, concordances, everything — it appears nowhere else."

"How about the short poem?" Harry prompted.

Hermione shook her head. "That's way too vague to be cross-referenced anywhere — A chemical emotion, falsely real; the power to hurt, and the power to heal. I figure even if I could check, it'd come up empty as well — that spellbook seems to be only place that anything specific relating to the love potion appears." She gave Harry a look. "Anything legal and orthodox that we're privy to, at least. Raid Malfoy's library and I'm sure they even offer recipes for preparing love potions in different flavours."

Harry cracked a smile. "So did you verify that what the vial contained was love potion?"

Hermione gave a half-shrug. "As far as I can tell, it certainly looks like it. If I wanted to be completely sure I'd have to test it in a Potions lab, then there's the Snape factor to consider... and it's not like I can taste the potion to see if it's the real stuff."

"No, no," Harry said quickly, vaguely wondering how he would cope if Hermione got roped in under the spell of the potion, too. "That won't be necessary — the lab testing, that is. I mean, I think I'm fairly convinced that Malfoy's telling the truth."

Hermione had been thoroughly fascinated by the account of Malfoy's knife-wound, and had made Harry tell it three times over so she could analyse exactly how the miraculous healing came about. She still couldn't explain it, and Harry had started to look rather queasy from the multiple vivid recollections of what happened.

She nodded slowly, pondering deeply. "The healing effect you had on Malfoy — it's almost unbelievable, that you have such power over him. I mean, isn't it scary? To have so much control over someone else?"

"According to Malfoy, all the love potion actually does is recreate the effect of real love — that you'd do anything for the person you're in love with, and in a way, that's how he or she has a complete hold over you." Harry paused thoughtfully. "Makes sense, really. But you're right, it's scary. I almost had an aneurysm when Malfoy stabbed himself with the knife I was holding." He shuddered.

Hermione smiled, and shook her head. "Ron would've given anything to be in your position — and Malfoy probably wouldn't even have to guide his hand, considering how very hacked off Ron is with him at the moment."

A thought abruptly occurred to Harry, accompanied with a wild, sinking dread. "Hermione — you haven't told Ron about this, have you?"

Hermione gave him a pointed look. "Have you seen Ron charging toward you wielding a pickaxe recently?"

"No." Harry's lips twitched with a small smile of relief. "Don't tell him, all right?"

Hermione's expression sobered. "But you aren't going to keep this from him forever, are you?"

Harry looked alarmed. "Forever? Hell, no, this damn thing isn't supposed to last that long. Recall, we're actually trying to find a way to get rid of it?"

"I know," Hermione sounded mildly aggrieved. "But still — it feels wrong, keeping Ron in the dark about what we're doing."

Harry looked genuinely troubled; he sighed and set his book down, pushing his glasses up his nose. "You think I don't feel awful about it too? I hate the idea of hiding things from Ron as much as you do — I mean, he's always been there for me when I needed him. It feels horrible to not tell him, but, really—" Harry moved his hands in a helpless gesture, "what can I do? Ron'll chop me into little bits if he finds out about this, and he'll make talcum powder out of Malfoy."

"And you're willing to compromise your friendship with Ron, in the not-so-unlikely event that he does find out?" Hermione shot Harry a doubtful look. "All this at stake, just for Malfoy?"

Harry looked distressed. "What do you expect me to do, Hermione?" He raked a hand through his tousled hair in despairing frustration. "Malfoy made me slice his chest open last night, and I walked back to my dorm with my hands still stained with his blood. And god knows what will happen if I don't at least try to help him — he may implode, or something messier than that. And then on the other hand there's Ron, and I really hate to go behind his back, but..." he trailed off, unable to reconcile his conflicting thoughts even in words.

"Do you think there's even the remotest chance that Ron would understand?" Hermione asked, though she knew the compelling odds were that it was more likely for a basilisk to have a picnic with you without having you for its picnic, than for Ron Weasley to ever be all right with helping Draco Malfoy in any way at all, be it tying a shoelace or reversing a love potion.

Harry hesitated, and seemed to be casting about for the right words. "Let's put it this way: Malfoy's been a real bastard to Ron all the while, no doubt about that. And if Ron ever learned about this, imagine what a perfect opportunity for revenge it'd be. He could really hurt Malfoy back for all the grudges between them — and I really don't think Malfoy is in any condition right now for that kind of thing. It just wouldn't be fair." He sighed and offered a useless shrug. "It isn't Ron's fault either. It's just human nature — it'd take a saint not to react that way."

"And yet you don't." Hermione mused quietly, almost to herself.

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"

Hermione raised her eyes, looking directly at Harry. "You don't think that way," she said simply. "Malfoy hasn't treated you much better than he has Ron. He's tried to get you into hot soup countless times before, and often in the worst, most spiteful manner possible. And now, you're in the perfect position to make him pay dearly for everything he's done to you, a situation that admittedly, Ron would've milked for what it's worth — but that's not what you're doing at all."

Harry heaved another sigh. "I don't quite know why I'm doing this, either," he confessed wryly, his green eyes clouding with a pensive haze, misty with remembrance. "It's just that this love potion business — it's deadly serious, from what I've seen of it. It isn't just about settling scores or getting back at someone you don't like — this involves real emotions that have been twisted out of shape, and along with it blood and pain and, for all you know, life or death."

Hermione crinkled her nose slightly. "And the fact that we're actually caring about Malfoy's welfare doesn't bother you in the least." Her tone was one of distaste.

Harry shook his head. "I don't care about Malfoy — I'm only helping him because he needs it. It's more out of obligation than actual willingness — there's a difference."

"A really sketchy one." Hermione muttered softly. "But Harry, are you sure you want to do this? You have no idea what the consequences of the love potion are. These are serious Dark Arts, Harry. Think carefully about what you're actually getting into here, and whether or not you're prepared to go all the way with it. Because I think it's better you stay out of it from the start rather than bail on Malfoy halfway through."

Harry absently drew out the ring Draco had given him, which he wore on a thin silver chain necklace around his neck, kept concealed inside the front of his robes. He drew the necklace over his head and held the ring in his hand, slowly running his finger over the smooth, cool metal band, feeling the defined edges on the surface of each crystal. Harry was struck anew by its simplistic beauty, elegant without needing to be elaborate, green and violet alternating in a pastel, crystalline sort of blend and contrast.

When he had shown the ring to Hermione earlier on, she had promptly taken it away from him and proceeded to subject it to a string of Sensing Spells and curse detecting charms. However, it came up completely clean, and she had finally gave it back to Harry, albeit suspiciously. "Malfoy doesn't strike me as the generous sort," she had said. "He's not even going to be lending jewellery for nothing."

As Harry tilted the ring to a different angle, the amethyst and jade glinted as they successively caught the rays of sunlight filtering in from outside, drawing out two slivers of pure colour from the spectrum of the rainbow and reflecting them in a bright dazzle that seemed to shine with its own white-platinum glow.

And faintly and softly in his mind, like an autumn drizzle, Harry heard Draco saying,

Amethyst is supposed to heal, bringing protection and clarity of mind.

Harry felt confused, uneasy and very unsure, as he stared unhappily at the tongues of fire dancing in the fireplace, kept lit even during the day to repel the winter chill. It was always this way — everything seemed so straightforward and simple when all he saw was Malfoy, his eyes shining with a silent plea and his smile edged with electric pain, quiet but not hidden.

Emerald repels evil, and... it brings out the colour of your eyes.

And whenever he saw Malfoy that way, fervently desperate and broken in spirit, his innate sense of what was right told him affirmatively that he had to help him, no matter what. Not for anything else, but because it was the right and therefore only thing to do.

But when he was away from Malfoy — things felt different. Reality sank its fangs down on the sympathetic side of his mind, injecting the venom of apprehension and doubt, and the right thing to do no longer seemed as crystal clear as before. Even though he'd convinced himself that Malfoy wasn't fabricating the whole love potion idea, he still had a bad feeling about all this.

"You don't have the motivation to actually want to go through with it," Hermione spoke up thoughtfully, voicing the sentiments that Harry couldn't quite pin down. "But you know that you need to do something, one way or the other, so you can tell yourself that you did try to make it better."

Harry gave up trying to articulate his restless thoughts into something that would even begin to make sense — they were actually just a confusing blend of contrasting emotions, about as miscible as kerosene and water, and as volatile as touching a flame to that mixture.

"I just want for this to be fixed as soon as possible, so that we can both get on with our lives," Harry said slowly, attempting to wrap his mind around the words he was speaking, as if trying to determine if they matched his true feelings. "I just want things to go back to normal, when they made a hell of a lot more sense than they do now."

"And that's what you really want." Hermione said deliberately, her tone measured.

It wasn't quite a question, nor did it offer the reassurance of being a statement. Harry was glad it didn't demand an answer, because he wasn't sure he could give a definite reply to that. Decisions were hard, especially when someone else's life was threaded into the equation, and the fact that the person was Draco Malfoy completely threw everything out of balance and out of the window. There was no use trying to rationalise, when the very idea of it was insane to start off.

"I don't know." Harry decided to leave the issue altogether unanswered. Reasons would come later, as regrets always did. "But what I do know is, I can't walk away, not now. So that's a pretty strategic roadblock where the path diverges."

Before Hermione could respond to that, the portrait hole swung open and in crawled Ron, hot and flushed either from excitement or from having been chased all the way back to the common room by Slytherins who had caught him on his merry little reconnaissance mission.

"Ha!" Ron crowed jubilantly, bounding over to where Harry and Hermione were sitting nestled by the fireplace. He flopped down next to them, the rose tinge on both his cheeks matching the flaming red of his hair perfectly, making his freckles stand out. "I managed to watch most of the Slytherins' practice session and I figured out their strategy — it's perfect."

"Oh really," Hermione remarked dryly; she had been disapproving of Ron going to spy in the very first place. "I thought that's what you said about our game plan."

Ron shot her a withering look. "Perfect for us, I mean. Look," he turned to Harry, and proceeded to gesture animatedly with his hands, pointing at invisible spots in mid-air as he explained the workings of the Top-Secret Slytherin Quidditch Strategy, speaking very fast. Harry found it increasingly hard to imagine where the non-existent dots were moving, and in the end fell back on just listening to Ron's commentary. Apparently Slytherin was playing a wing-intensive forward formation, which meant that centre-field would be most open and vulnerable, which favoured Gryffindor because their Chasers were more proficient playing down the middle of the pitch.

"And the best piece of news is that Malfoy seems really out of it during the practice, which totally made my day to watch him," Ron grinned triumphantly. "If he keeps up the poor form, you'll have a fun time running circles around him on Wednesday."

Hermione glanced quickly at Harry, and saw that his eyes were suddenly bright with attentiveness, as he asked in a forcedly casual tone, "What do you mean, out of it?"

"He flew terribly," Ron explained gleefully, still looking thoroughly pleased with himself. "He looked like he wasn't concentrating very well on what he was doing — twice he almost got knocked off his broom by a Bludger. Hilarious, that was. If he flies like that in the match, the only thing you'll have to worry about, Harry, is that you don't end up laughing so hard you forget to catch the Snitch."

"Awfully complacent, aren't we, Ron?" Hermione asked sharply. "Malfoy isn't as good as Harry, but he certainly isn't all that lousy a flyer, or he wouldn't have been made captain."

Ron's eyes hardened with a dark tension. "Do you really believe that, Hermione? With Lucius Malfoy back on the board of governors, he doesn't need to pull many strings to get his son as team captain." Lucius Malfoy's generous contributions to St Mungo's and other welfare institutions had canvassed enough support within Ministry circles to get him reinstated as a governor of Hogwarts.

Ron looked at both of them with a fierce sort of pride, which reminded Harry strongly of Oliver Wood. "And in all the past games they've played against us, have you ever seen Malfoy catch the Snitch? Not once."

Hermione seemed too absorbed in furtively watching Harry's reaction to respond; Ron now turned to Harry, his blue eyes blazing with a deep truculent intensity. "You have to beat him, Harry," he said earnestly, "Show him that money can never buy talent, or a true victory. Show him that having an influential father means nothing when he needs to cheat to have a shot at winning , and yet still lose." Ron drew a deep, fiery breath, and continued, "Because I need to see him fail once more, for everything he's ever done to us."

Even though Ron had said 'us', both Hermione and Harry knew that he actually meant 'me'. Hermione could see the raw thirst for revenge so plainly evident in Ron's eyes, and for a moment it scared her, how long-held grudges from ingrained family rivalry could precipitate such anger and hatred. She looked over at Harry, and saw the look of torn confusion contorting Harry's face, troubled lines etched into a small frown, even as he gave a constricted nod and said a soft "Of course", avoiding Ron's gaze and her own.

Oh no, Hermione lamented inwardly, a sinking dread starting up in the pit of her stomach, a harbinger of things unpleasant. This is a disaster just waiting to happen.

* * * * * * *

Draco emerged fresh from a shower, his blond hair slick as wet silk, fine and threaded with beads of silver water at the tips. He shook his head lightly, then tossed back the stray fringe that hung wetly in front of his eyes as he walked back to his dorm to deposit his Quidditch things.

Of course, Draco had seen Ron Weasley sneaking around behind the hedges lining the pitch during Slytherin's practice session. The redheaded twit had been trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible, to no avail — he looked like a walking bushfire amidst the branches stripped of leaves. It was certainly not the best method of camouflage, and Draco sniggered to himself at how ridiculous Ron had actually looked, creeping around like that.

But at the same time he also remembered Ron's words to him the day before, lanced with spite and bitter malice: On the day you finally fall with a mighty crash, know that it is exactly what you deserve.

Draco closed his eyes and sat down heavily at the foot of his bed, briefly contemplating the horror of what would happen if Weasley found out about his situation with the love potion. The mere thought of the humiliation was enough to make Draco shudder. The rivalry he used to share with Harry was one thing; the hatred that ran between him and Weasley, like a black river extending generations in time, was entirely another. And it had been hard enough to swallow his pride and ask Harry to help him; but if he had to contend with Ron Weasley knowing about this, Draco strongly suspected he would just spontaneously combust.

Harry hadn't told Weasley about the love potion, Draco finally decided with no small measure of unease He couldn't have. Draco knew that if Weasley did find out, he certainly wouldn't have the decency to keep it to himself, and the next moment the whole of Hogwarts would know about it, and his father— Draco broke off in mid-thought, not even wanting to think further about that. No, Harry wouldn't tell Weasley. Or would he?

Draco thought of the first time he'd challenged Harry to a wizard's duel in their first year, yet secretly tipped Filch off that the Gryffindors would be out of bed in the trophy room. He still remembered why he'd done such a cowardly thing, because the truth was that he'd been intimidated by Harry, the slight, scrawny black-haired boy who had so coolly refused his hand of friendship. And when Harry had unexpectedly agreed to face off with him in a wizard's duel, Draco had privately panicked — and because he hadn't been assured that he would win, all he had wanted was to make sure they would lose. He'd wanted to watch Harry get into trouble, to be stripped of the glory that seemed to come to him so effortlessly.

Know that it is exactly what you deserve. Ron's words again, ringing on the fringes of his consciousness, echoing an ominous acceptance deep within him. For all the things he'd ever done to Harry, for all the malicious words he'd hurled in Harry's direction... maybe Weasley was right, for once. Maybe this was what he deserved. Or maybe it was just the love potion talking.

And last night. It had taken every ounce of willpower to restrain himself from doing anything that might give Harry the impression that he was a sex-deprived maniac fishing for some kicks. Of course, for his part Harry didn't seem at all inclined to entertain any more snogs — but Draco realised that he no longer just wanted to kiss Harry for the mere physical contact. He wanted to feel Harry behind the kiss, to feel something other than unresponsive lips frozen by shock or repulsion; he didn't want to know which, although it was likely a combination of both.

The love potion no longer throbbed through him like a live current whenever Harry was around; instead, it had subsided to a dull aching pulse, like static electricity, alternately freezing streams of thought then jerking them into a tailspin. It was a matured sort of pain now, like a chronic condition that was starting to infiltrate his bones into the marrow — and this insidious tide of chemical poison scared him more than ever, because he was starting to forget how he used to hate Harry. Now all he could remember was the twistingly empty emotion that flamed like cold fire each time Harry came close to him; a hollow image of love, like the reflection of smoke in mirrors, but still, love nonetheless.

* * * * * * *

"What the hell?"

Harry stared at Draco, first surprise then realisation and finally indignation spreading over his face. Draco eyed him calmly, a tentative smile lifting the edges of his mouth, and he looked almost amused as Harry took one more angry glance at the rolled-up parchment Draco held in his own hand, then started yelling at him.

"What the hell are you trying to do, Malfoy?" Harry's voice flared with rage, and he snatched the scroll out of Draco's unresisting hand. "Do you want to get me into trouble again? Are we back to status quo, where I'm actually supposed to spend my time watching my back for your cheap dirty tricks, instead of helping you find out about love potions? Is that it?"

Draco looked mildly shaken by Harry's furious tirade. "No," he answered, his tone of voice quietly conciliatory. "I just wanted to talk to you, that's all. I can't seem to find any other time that you're alone."

"Oh," Harry said sarcastically. "I see. You steal my homework and get me sent out of class for it, but that's all okay because you know, my mid-term grade doesn't really matter that much, not to you at least." He glared venomously at Draco. "Honestly, Malfoy! Is everything just about you? Do you want to make me a genie while you're at it, so you can stuff me into a bottle and summon me whenever you just want to talk for a bit?"

Draco chewed on his lower lip, feeling mildly remorseful — Transfiguration class was in progress right now, and he'd furtively performed a Summoning Spell while McGonagall's back was turned and had taken Harry's homework assignment off her table without her noticing. As a result, she'd queried Harry about his failure to submit his homework, upon which Harry had protested that he did hand it up, and the Professor had told him to go back to his dormitory to look for it. Flustered and baffled by the mysterious disappearance of his homework scroll, Harry had left the classroom, upon which Draco had also excused himself to go to the bathroom and had chased after Harry, finally catching up with him here on the third-floor corridor, near the statue of the humpbacked one-eyed witch.

"I'm not stealing your homework," Draco protested weakly, carefully taking into account how mad Harry seemed— and likely was— with him. "I was going to put it back."

"You know, why don't you try that concept with other people's money next time, and let me know from Azkaban whether that's a good excuse or not." Harry said coldly.

Draco took a deep breath to calm himself, so that he wouldn't snap something nasty and get Harry even more hacked off at him. "Look," he said slowly, meaningfulness burning strongly in his eyes, "it's already Monday. The match is in two days' time, Potter, and I still haven't found anything that might work yet. I just wanted to ask if you had any ideas," Draco paused, and added, "any at all."

Harry's expression softened slightly; he understood Malfoy's desperation, because truthfully it mirrored some of his own urgency, which was why he'd been regularly checking if Hermione had made any progress with finding an antidote for the love potion. Headway was still slow as yet, although she said that she had a few possible leads.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair, pushing his fringe out of his eyes; standing across from him Draco blandly wondered how such a casual gesture of running fingers through hair could ever seem even remotely erotic — which it did, almost painfully so. Of course, only Harry could have such an effect on him. His every movement seethed with dark allure, that natural magnetism which drew out the mercurial potion rising in his blood, making him ache as if from an assault of a phantom blade.

"There doesn't seem to be any antidote to the love potion listed anywhere in the magical reference books, at least those that we could get our hands on," Harry was saying, and Draco jerked back to the present as a single word jarred him, bringing his drifting thoughts back into sharp focus.

"We?" Draco interrupted pointedly, his eyes cutting over to Harry's, his gaze piercing.

Harry hesitated for a moment; his cheeks coloured imperceptibly, as if embarrassed that he had divulged something he hadn't intended to, but when he spoke his voice was calm and composed. "I asked Hermione to help me with the research."

Draco felt his heart slam up against his ribcage with a sickening crack, and for a moment his pulse ground to a dead halt, before stilted blood flooded back through his veins with a rush of thunder. "You told her?"

Harry raised his chin almost defiantly. "If anyone can help with this, Hermione can. And she's trustworthy enough to keep a secret, which is more than I can say about you."

Draco vaguely wondered if Harry was alluding to the incident with Hagrid's dragon, in their first year. But right now he was too horrified by the revelation that he and Harry weren't the only two living souls who knew about what happened, that Harry, whom he trusted for some insane reason, had gone and told Granger, who probably had the heartiest laugh in her life over it.

Draco swore in frustration and kicked the flagstone wall next to them for good measure, his foot narrowly missing the corner of the one-eyed witch's pedestal. "I can't believe you told Granger! What the hell were you thinking, Potter? Didn't I tell you to keep this absolutely secret?"

"No you didn't, actually," Harry retorted, annoyance and irritation sparking in his clear green eyes, "I think most of the time, before you even got to that bit, you'd give up talking and start kissing me instead."

"Fuck you, Potter," Draco hissed, taking a step forward, black fire in his eyes.

Anger peaked like sharp spikes of seething hot metal, and Harry roughly shoved Draco backwards; his back hit the wall with a solid impact that must have hurt, although Draco showed none of the physical pain, only hints of another kind of suffering that smoked like a hidden fire in his eyes.

"You are coming dangerously close to pissing me off like no one has ever done before." Harry snarled, rage mixed with disgust burning like a smouldering flame behind his dark green eyes, like circles of charred grass. "Then again, you're already the current record-holder, so don't push your limits, Malfoy."

Draco's chest swelled with suppressed fury, and he glared daggers at Harry. "Have you ever wondered why I never even thought to approach any of the professors to ask for help, that I'd actually ask you instead of Snape, for instance, who'd know a hell of a lot more about love potions? Do you know how serious things will be if this gets out to the rest of Hogwarts? All it takes is for someone to report this to the school authorities, and guess whose father is on the board of governors?" Draco's voice was raised now, with an almost hysterical note to it. "Do you have any idea what's going to happen to me if my father finds out?"

"Hermione's not going to report this to any of the teachers!" Harry answered angrily, looking thoroughly infuriated. "She's my friend and I trust her, and I know that if she promises to keep it to herself, she will."

"I'm not so sure about that." Draco's voice was edged with bitter cynicism; he suddenly became almost painfully aware of the weight of Harry's palm pressing against his chest, which sent a shivering thrill through him like fiery adrenaline. "Can't you bloody see? She hates me, Potter, and you've just given her the perfect way to get back at me."

"Your past sins catching up with you, are they?" Harry's voice was icy, his tone smugly detached. "Maybe this'll make you think twice about calling Hermione a Mudblood, or sneering at Ron's family again."

Another thought suddenly occurred to Draco, so terrible and dreadful that it drained his anger like mist vanishing into a furnace, and he slumped back against the wall as despair and a cold, sinking horror overcame him, glacial tides that crystallised his fear and suspended it in a frozen eternity.

"Please say you didn't tell Weasley." Draco's voice sounded numbed and distant, and utterly defeated.

Harry blinked, mildly startled; this was the first time he had ever heard Draco say 'please'. Draco had never said it before, not even when he'd asked Harry for help — and Harry watched the spectrum of pain that danced across Draco's face, bleak realisation and crumbling pride and sheer hopelessness, a black dawn of darkness and misery. And after he'd seen Malfoy take everything so far in his stride with forced calm, Harry also knew the breaking point when he saw it, and he knew this would be the ultimate humiliation, more than Draco would be able to bear — if Ron knew about the love potion, Ron who was Draco's enemy in a far more entrenched way than Harry had ever been.

"No," Harry said, and surprised himself at the gentleness in his tone; he saw Draco look up, a flare of hope in his pale eyes. Harry felt his own anger ebb away, subsiding as quickly as it had risen, because it was incredibly hard to remain wrathful in the face of such desolation. "No, I didn't tell him. And neither did Hermione."

Contrary to what Harry had expected, a look of immense relief didn't wash across Draco's face, nor did the spark of hope ignite in Draco's eyes of frozen grey, which remained dull and misted like frosted glass. Harry couldn't quite read the emotion that shimmered behind them. Draco's expression remained downcast, even in the face of Harry's reassurance; it was as if that moment of horror had been so stark and desolate that it struck as deep as reality would have, and Draco was still reeling from the impact, like the lack of resilience in a spring that had been stretched too far past its elastic limit.

Harry's words served to substantially alleviate the hysteria that had spiralled through Draco at the mention of Ron — now he closed his eyes, and the leaden realisation of his own vulnerability brought on a new, frantic tide of panic. And Draco was scared, all of a sudden, of how much this situation had taken away his control over himself; how easily other people could now affect him, and make him feel things that he had never felt before, not to this intensity — feelings of fear and horror, as well as of longing and desire.

Draco realised that Harry's hand was still resting against his chest; the scar of the knife-wound stirred under Harry's touch, an intimate connection between them forged in a covenant of blood. The unconscious placement of Harry's hand against the scar brought a curious onslaught of sensation, which burned but wasn't hurtful, a numbed flame only stoking his confusion, and Draco shuddered involuntarily.

Harry saw Draco flinch slightly, as if from pain, and he suddenly remembered that his hand was pressing down on the place that the knife had sliced apart — quickly he withdrew his hand, and stared at Draco with renewed concern. "Did I hurt you?"

What an ironic question, Draco thought colourlessly, even as he felt Harry's fingers gingerly brush against his robes, at the place just covering the scar. Every single moment that we're together, you're hurting me, even though you don't know it.

Harry gently pushed the fabric of Draco's robes away, baring part of Draco's left shoulder in a decent fashion; in an almost clinical manner he carefully inspected the scar, which had now faded to a pale silvery streak barely visible against Draco's fair skin. Draco closed his eyes as he surrendered to the fluid touch of Harry's hands moving lightly over his skin in an accidental caress, and it felt like heaven, dreams of gold and…

Behind closed lids the familiar dreams came to life, the seductive companions of his nights, scorched into his mind like burning honey leaving a bitter aftertaste; Draco felt himself slip from reality's feeble grasp as he let himself drown in the living dreams, as —

Harry's hands were sliding up his arms, and Harry was leaning close to him, whispering words against his lips that tasted sweet and sour like wine, intoxicating him. Harry's fingers were trailing teasingly along the blade of his shoulder, pushing away his clothes, letting them drop carelessly away. The heat of Harry's palms against his bare skin was making him shiver; Harry's hands were stroking across his chest, and Harry was kissing his mouth with a tenderness that melted the coldness within him, filling him with such wonderful warmth. He was gasping softly in response, helpless with pleasure, and Harry's tongue was running slowly along his lower lip; his own hands were moving to link themselves around Harry's neck, drawing them closer together, and only then did he finally feel whole, complete...

Draco's eyes flashed open, and he abruptly moved toward Harry, breaching the short distance between them. Harry blinked, letting his hands drop from resting on Draco's shoulder where he was examining the scar; all of a sudden they were so close that Draco's hands were brushing against his own, which were now held rigidly by his side.

Harry drew a deep calming breath, then started to ask, "Malfoy, what's—"

"I have these dreams," Draco said abruptly, cutting Harry short; Harry could feel the warmth of Draco's body aligned against his, and although Draco was speaking at no louder than a whisper, his voice was all that Harry could hear, so close were they standing. Draco's eyes seemed distant and unfocused, and he continued, "I dream of you, and in these dreams you're—"

"Malfoy," Harry said quietly, although he didn't move away, nor push Draco aside. "We have a class to attend."

Of course, Harry could never truly understand. Draco looked deep into Harry's eyes, pure green as emerald, emerald which was supposed to heal and protect, but instead exposed him to such vulnerability, over which he had no control. Where he stood Draco could breathe the gentle scent that was so uniquely Harry; blinded by impulse and desire he leaned in, and his mouth brushed against Harry's unresponsive lips for the whisper of a moment—

Every time I kiss you, it hurts.

Draco's manner had been insistent before, but not forceful like this; Harry was startled, almost alarmed as he felt Draco nudge him up against the wall. Draco's hands were moving swiftly up to hold his face, and Draco was leaning in, his lips closing over Harry's—

"Stop it, Draco." Harry said, more firmly this time, and he turned his face away from Draco, breaking the kiss; Draco seemed to snap out of his daze, and he looked stung as he stepped back, his eyes wide and bright as if with vivid fever.

Every time you push me away, all I feel is the pain.

Draco took an unsteady step backward, feeling his face flush with embarrassment and unfulfilled desire; not quite lust, but certainly a very intense desire, one which made him want to just throw Harry up against the wall and kiss him until the yearning went away, but Draco knew even that would not be enough to quell the urgings of the potion.

The mild shock of Draco's sudden aggressiveness wore off, and Harry felt a wave of sympathy as he saw the wretched look on Draco's face, the silent torture of dreams which just couldn't coalesce with reality — Harry knew how disturbing they could be, how the invisible threads of dreams could enmesh and complicate reality. Altered reality, in Draco's case.

"Look," Harry said, watching Draco carefully, "Hermione has been doing lots of research over the weekend, and she reckons she's got a few leads which might get us somewhere. I really think you should talk to her directly about this — and I will personally throttle you if you're horrid to her, because she's been working very hard just to help us. Without her, I don't think I'd have the time to sift through all those spellbooks, and neither would you, with all the Quidditch practice we're having. So you owe her big time, Malfoy."

Draco had a faraway look in his eyes as he shrugged, almost uncaringly. "Whatever you think is best."

To Draco, it didn't matter now even if Harry allowed him to kiss him again. The void of emptiness might be filled, but only for the fleeting moments when he held Harry, when he was awash with the sensation of being so close to him, tasting the dizzying sweetness of Harry's mouth, feeling the invigorating heat of his body. But when Harry would finally push him away once more, breaking the intimacy like a whisper shattering silence, everything would collapse and fade back to the shadows of desolation.

Everything would fall apart.

Harry cast a wary look around — thankfully, everyone was safely in class, so their present little interlude would probably go unnoticed by any student. But Filch was a different matter… and McGonagall might start to wonder what was taking him so long.

Harry glanced at his watch. "I'll be busy with classes and Quidditch practice for the rest of today, so how about tomorrow, after lunch? We've booked the pitch again in the afternoon but I can squeeze out some time to meet you, and Hermione can be there too." Harry privately noted that this way, Ron would probably be too occupied with Quidditch practice to notice his brief disappearance and Hermione's absence. "Hopefully by tomorrow Hermione'll have more ideas to share with us."

"What she doesn't?" Draco asked blandly, and his voice was hollow. "How if there just isn't any way to cure this?"

"Don't say that. It's really not helping." Harry gave Draco a severe look. "Can't you be a little more enthusiastic and positive about this?"

"Enthusiastic?" Draco echoed morosely. "I'm poisoned by a love potion, and every time I see you I just want to die. If enthusiasm was contagious, Potter, then I'm definitely immune."

"Just..." Harry trailed off, and then heaved a weary sigh. "Just have a little faith, will you? I'm also trying my best to find a way through this, you know."

"I know." Draco said softly, slanting a glance up at Harry, lowered lashes effectively obscuring the emotion in his eyes. Then he reached out and took the Transfiguration essay out of Harry's hand. "I'll go back first and replace this on her table so that when you come in, it's already there, and she'll just think she missed it while checking through earlier."

Harry watched Malfoy abruptly turn and walk away, his soft footsteps betraying his downcast soberness; yet, Draco still held himself with remarkable poise, each step measured and decisive, so contrary to the confusion in his mind which was all too evident to Harry. It was a marvel that Draco's pride was still intact, even though his control was in shreds; he still looked so composed, even though Harry knew he was slowly coming to pieces from within, a slow-motion shattering — and Harry also knew his own presence only catalysed the steady disintegration of Draco's resolve.

If we don't find a way out of this fast, Harry thought grimly, things might become too serious for us to handle, and someone might end up getting hurt. Badly.

* * * * * * *

"Well." Harry cleared his throat, wishing the tense, distrustful atmosphere would clear as well. He looked from Draco to Hermione, sitting opposite each other, both occupied with exchanging hostile, guarded looks.

They were in the empty Charms classroom after lunch on an overcast Tuesday, the eve of the Gryffindor-Slytherin clash. Harry had arranged for the private little meeting between the three of them, which from the looks of it, would not proceed very smoothly at all. Hermione had grumbled that she had to carry her books all the way to the Charms classroom, and Draco had been looking sullen ever since he stepped into the room ten minutes ago. Neither of them had said a word directly to each other, and Harry was starting to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all.

"Well," Harry said again, shooting Hermione an imploring glance; she still refused to look straight at Malfoy, and instead grabbed a book from the top of the stack and began flipping through it.

"Well what, Potter?" Draco prompted crossly; he had his arms crossed over his chest and was looking bored and impatient. "Are we here for a yoga meditation session, or is actual talking on the agenda anytime soon?"

Hermione put her book down, and glared venomously at Draco, her dislike plainly apparent. "You know, if you've got nothing decent to say, it takes less effort not to say it."

"Ah, our fair maiden speaks." Draco offered a smirk, "I was beginning to wonder if you'd actually fallen asleep sitting up."

"Enough!" Harry interjected, shooting Draco a quelling look. "Malfoy, get back in line and stop irritating Hermione. She's trying to figure something out."

"'Trying' being the operative word here." Draco sniped back contemptuously, the familiar malice glinting in his eyes.

Hermione's eyes sparked with anger and she looked on the verge of saying something in retort before Harry swiftly cut in. He muttered a few words to Hermione to ask her to calm down, then he proceeded to grab Draco by the arm, yank him roughly to his feet and propel him out of the classroom.

When they were outside, Harry spun Draco around and slammed him up against the corridor wall with such force and abruptness that Draco let out a soft gasp of surprise. Harry gripped a handful of Draco's shirt collar, and shook him, though not viciously; Harry's eyes shone with a mix of fury and exasperation, and Draco could feel the intensity of his emotion running like live current through the point where Harry's fist was nudged up against his chest.

"What the hell was that for, Malfoy?" Harry snarled, jerking his head back at the classroom by way of gesture. "She's actually trying to help you, do you know that? Hermione's got a lot better things to do than dig through stacks and stacks of books just to find out more about love potions and whether there's any conceivable way out of this mess — she's got no reason to do this for you, given how horrid you've been to her, and still are!"

"I don't trust her, that's why!" Draco shot back, giving voice to his truthful feelings. "Just because she's brainy and conversant with books, does that mean I'm supposed to entrust my life into her hands? I don't even know her, for god's sake!"

"That's right," Harry retorted, fiercely defensive. "You don't know Hermione. Because if you did, you'd know that she's about the kindest, most self-sacrificing friend you can ever find. You'd know that she'll stand by your side no matter what you do, even if she strongly disapproves of it, but just because you're her friend, she'll be willing to weather the storm with you, regardless of what it takes." Harry paused to draw a deep breath, and his voice quivered with suppressed rage. "You don't know her, Malfoy, and you owe her a lot more than you think, starting with an apology. So the least you can do now is show her the respect she deserves."

Draco actually had the grace to look slightly subdued as Harry escorted him back into the classroom; Hermione glowered at him as he took his seat, but he avoided her eyes and suddenly became avidly interested in a tiny beetle crawling on the edge of a desk, which he began prodding with the tip of his wand, muttering a spell under his breath. The beetle's wings hummed, and it seemed to want to take flight but under the influence of Draco's wand, didn't seem to be able to do so. It twitched and buzzed on the spot.

"Stop that!" Hermione said shrilly, staring at the beetle with horror in her eyes; memories of the spider she had witnessed being tortured by the fake Mad-Eye Moody were still all too vivid. "Quit it, Malfoy!"

Draco raised his wand, and whatever spell he had uttered was broken; the beetle whirred its wings feebly, in an injured way, before crawling away to safety as fast as it could. Draco listlessly watched it escape, aware of Harry and Hermione's horrified looks fixated on him. He returned their startled gazes with a bland expression, and shrugged nonchalantly, as if to say What the hell are you staring at?

Hermione looked mildly shaken; Harry leaned over and whispered something to her, comforting words to calm her somewhat. Draco found himself strangely unsettled, almost angered by seeing that tender, intimate sort of gesture of Harry leaning over to whisper in Hermione's ear, even though it was purely platonic between them — it re-awakened a volatile yearning within him, thrilling through his veins with each heartbeat, bearing the poison that ran through his blood, into his soul.

Giving Malfoy another appalled, scandalised look, Hermione turned her attention back to a scrap piece of parchment tucked neatly into one of the books. "Well, I've got some news to report on what I've found so far," she announced.

"Good news or bad?" Draco asked in a dull tone.

Hermione cut him a sharp, unyielding glance, and without missing a beat said, "I suppose it has to be good, since the fact that this has everything to do with you more than fulfils the bad news quotient."

"What did you find?" Harry quickly chipped in, before Draco could verbalise a retort; he was regretting ever imagining that Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy could spend even five minutes together in the same room without one of them getting inflated and stuck on the ceiling. Right now, Harry was the one keeping the ungainly peace.

Hermione picked up another book and flipped it open to a page that she'd dog-eared. "I managed to find the source of that Latin quote inscribed in Malfoy's spellbook. The reason that there weren't any references to it in any of the magical spell concordances, is because its origin is actually from an epic Muggle poem, which dates all the way back to the first century BC."

"Muggle?" Draco interrupted, looking disgusted. "But it's an ancient pure-magic potion, isn't it? Why does it even have anything Muggle-related?"

Hermione looked distinctly ticked off by Malfoy's tactlessness. "I think it's deliberate," she answered, giving Draco a very pointed look, "it just goes to show that the reach of the love potion is ubiquitous — whether you're wizard or Muggle, you aren't immune to the effects of induced love. Which does make perfect sense, in my opinion."

To Hermione's surprise, Draco didn't contest her statement, just remained silent. She also noticed that his gaze lingered on Harry, who didn't see Draco staring at him, being too absorbed in what she was explaining. Hermione made a bemused mental note of the way Draco was looking at Harry, then continued, "Anyway, there's some pretty interesting mythology woven around that quote."

"What's the myth about?" Harry queried, looking interested.

"Well," Hermione consulted a brief summary she'd written out, "legend has it that a Greek maiden, Laodamia, married Protesilaus, the king of Phylace. However, Protesilaus had to leave Laodamia behind shortly after their wedding to go and fight in Troy, where he was a battle commander. But an oracle had also prophesied that the first Greek man to touch Trojan soil would also be the first to die."

"Let me guess." Draco rolled his eyes. "This Protesilaus guy leaps onto the shore the minute they arrive, all gung-ho about it. Or better still, he misunderstands the oracle, so jumps off the boat and swims all the way to shore, thinking he'll win a prize for landing first. Is that how it goes?"

"Well," Hermione conceded reluctantly, in a very dignified sort of way, "that's actually pretty much what happened, though not as ludicrous as Malfoy's description of events. Some stories state that the Greeks learned of the prophecy and, upon arrival at Troy, were hesitant to land. Protesilaus, however, heroically leapt ashore and cut down several Trojans. Other stories said that the Greeks were unaware of the prophecy and Protesilaus was the first ashore merely out of eagerness."

Draco snorted in triumph, and made a noise that sounded like "Ha! That silly git."

"Whatever the case," Hermione continued, "the prophecy still held true, and Protesilaus was soon the first Greek to die on Trojan soil." She actually almost sounded sorrowful at this. "After learning of his death, Laodamia mourned her lost husband to such an extent that Hermes himself consented to bring Protesilaus back to the land of the living for three hours, so that they could be together for one last time."

Harry frowned slightly. "And where does the Latin quote figure into all of this?"

"A poet named Propertius describes the undying, enduring love that exists between Protesilaus and Laodamia in a poem in the first book of his Elegies, and that's where the Latin quote appears." Hermione consulted the notes she had penned. "Traicit et fati litora magnus amor — when translated, it reads along the lines of 'A great love passes through the shores of fate.'"

"Something like that," Draco muttered to himself. He looked up at Hermione, a veiled expression of bored defiance in his eyes. "Then what happens? They are reunited and live happily ever after with the blissful knowledge that the story of their romance will be repeated, ad nauseum, in all generations to come?"

"No," Hermione replied, giving Draco a simmering glance. "After the three hours were up, Protesilaus was to die again, and so Laodamia threw herself onto his funeral pyre, and died with him."

There was a brief stunned silence at the violent, abrupt denouement to the tragic tale.

"That sure is a cheerful story," Draco finally remarked in a sarcastic drawl, "It really uplifts our spirits, because it's not like we've been all that lively of late."

"Malfoy," Harry snapped warningly, and Draco shifted in his seat and tried his best to ignore the sharp look Harry was giving him. Harry turned back to Hermione. "What do you think is the significance of the myth?"

"Maybe we're supposed to go toast ourselves for a bit," Draco suggested unhelpfully, "you know, like a baptism of fire. Really meaningful and all that."

"Oh, please, be my guest," Hermione snapped, her voice thinly controlled. "We'd get a whole lot more work done if you just went away and boiled your head. Maybe the rest of yourself too, while you're at it."

Before Draco could find something to say to that, Harry took one glance at his watch and groaned. "I'm late for Quidditch practice — I really have to leave now." He paused, then caught Hermione's horrified expression. "What? What's wrong?"

"You're leaving? You're leaving for Quidditch practice now?" Hermione seemed positively aghast. "You're not actually going off and abandoning us here, are you?"

"Um," said Harry uneasily, "that was pretty much what I meant when I said 'leaving', although 'abandoning' does sound rather harsh."

"Harry," Hermione said firmly, shooting a sharp, meaningful look at Harry. "Can I talk to you for a moment — outside?"

"Attack of the conscience, Granger?" Draco commented caustically, as both Harry and Hermione got to their feet. "Don't recall you ever having any qualms about criticising me to my face."

Hermione ignored him, and took Harry by the arm and tugged him out of the classroom, shutting the door noisily after them. She turned to look at him, disbelief and exasperation in her eyes. "I can't believe this — you're going off and leaving me alone with Malfoy?"

"I can't help it," Harry said apologetically, a pleading look in his eyes, so earnest that it softened Hermione's annoyed expression. "I have to go for Quidditch practice now, or Ron and the others will start to wonder where I am and come looking for me." He paused. "Just don't let Malfoy get to you, Herm — I've talked to him already, and I don't think he's in a real position to be incisively nasty."

"This certainly is an exciting prospect for the afternoon." Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, and looked fractiously at Harry. "I disclaim all responsibility for any bodily injuries Malfoy may receive for being the horrid, insufferable git that he is. He already holds the dubious honour of being the only person I've ever slapped before in my life."

"Don't worry, you'll manage." Harry cracked a wry, tired grin; and as he turned to leave, he added softly, "Thanks a lot, Hermione."

"Hmmph," was all Hermione huffed in response; with another quick smile, Harry hurried off along the corridor and disappeared down the stairwell at the far end.

Hermione stood where she was for a few long moments, watching Harry leave.

How did I get myself into this? she asked herself, with no small measure of chagrin. I'm now going to be stuck with Malfoy for the better part of this afternoon. Or should I say, the worst part. If not for Harry... her mental voice trailed off, and she closed her eyes, strengthening her resolve. I'm doing this for Harry, not Malfoy. She reckoned that she would do well to constantly remind herself of this. For Harry.

Hermione sighed as she turned and walked ruefully back to the Charms classroom. She drew to a halt in front of the closed door, and took a few deep breaths to regain her composure; she had a strong feeling that she was going to need every ounce she could muster.

8 Falls Apart

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.

Draco looked up as Hermione stalked back into the classroom, sans Harry, and strode over to sit in the chair furthest away from him. She seemed unsettled, not quite as composed as she usually was; she crossed her arms over her chest and sat there glowering at him. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded Malfoy with an expression of mild distaste, and she started, "I cannot believe that—"

"—that I am stuck here with you for the entire afternoon," Draco finished for her, with a perfect imitation of her offended tone of voice. He rolled his eyes at her, and continued in a bored drawl, "Yes, I know, Granger, my sentiments exactly. Now, moving right along— what's next on the agenda of insults? Oh yes, you're supposed to start telling me what a snobbish, despicable git I am."

Hermione glared at him. "I've got better things to do than pick petty fights with you, Malfoy." Her tone was mildly haughty, and she determinedly picked up a book and held it up in front of her face, shielding Draco from her view. "Now just shut up and start reading."

"Talking about yourself, you mean? Perfect idea."

Hermione slammed down her book and rose abruptly to her feet, her face flushed with anger. "What is the matter with you, Malfoy? Why can't you keep quiet and not be an intolerable, arrogant, obnoxious egomaniac just for once, when everyone else is trying their best to help you?" Her cheeks were flaming with heated rage. "Do you think Harry's having an easy time of this? Does it seem to you like he hasn't enough on his hands, what with Quidditch practice and homework and term assignments, that he'd actually want to get involved in this stupid love potion research? Especially when it's for you? Do you know how worried he is, and how much it hurts him to hide this whole screwed-up mess from Ron? Do you have any idea how angry Ron will be if he finds out? Enlighten me, Malfoy, what is it that you can give him that's a good enough reason for him to risk losing his best friend?"

Draco looked stunned at Hermione's furious tirade, and didn't appear to have collected his thoughts enough to form an answer when Hermione answered for him,

"Nothing!" she snapped harshly. "You've given him nothing but trouble ever since we started school together. Do you remember the time when you tried to get us caught with Hagrid's dragon? When you challenged Harry to a wizard's duel, only to tip Filch off instead? What kind of a coward does things like that? And to think after all you've done to him, Harry still agrees to help you get out of this love potion fix that you single-handedly got yourself into, which you dragged him in through no fault of his..." Hermione paused to replenish her breath, "...and now, while we're racing against time to find a way out of this before the Quidditch game tomorrow, which is a nearly impossible task, all you do is sit around and make snide remarks and generally irritate the hell out of everyone!"

"Hey, I—" Draco started in protest, but Hermione curtly cut him off.

"I want you to know something, Malfoy— I'm not doing any of this for you. I'm only doing it because I think Harry has far too much on his hands to manage at the moment and I just want to help him out wherever I can. And if, for one moment, you've got some ingeniously horrible plan to use this to hurt Harry in any way, let me advise you to get it out of your head right now. And don't think this is just an empty threat, Malfoy, because I swear, if you backstab Harry after all he's done for you, the only thing left that'll be empty is your cranial cavity."

Hermione sat down and slumped back in her chair, looking winded and exhausted, her cheeks still tinged with an angry rouge. A swift, deathly still silence descended in the room, both tense and awkward, until Draco finally spoke up.

"He's worried about me?" Draco asked softly.

Hermione blinked, momentarily thrown— she'd been bracing herself for a snappy retort to which she would have to think of something cutting in reply. She cleared her throat, which was slightly hoarse from her shouting.

"No," she answered frankly. "He's worried for you, Malfoy, not about you." She looked very ruffled, and distinctly annoyed. "Did you hear anything I said after that, or did you lose me after the worried bit? Because I really wasn't done yet."

"I heard you," Draco said, in that same quiet tone. Then he smiled wryly. "That was quite a performance, Granger. Very theatrical and all. I'd say encore, but I think my self-esteem has taken enough of a beating for one afternoon."

"I meant every word of that, Malfoy," Hermione said shortly, fixing Draco with a stern glare. "I don't know what you're up to, and I'll let you know that I have my suspicions about you. But for some strange, bizarre reason, Harry actually trusts you, so this had better be good."

"He trusts me?" Genuine surprise shimmered in Draco's eyes. "Did he actually say that?"

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "Does he actually have to say it? Just look at what he's doing. Does Harry look like someone who'd invest his time and energy in something he doesn't truly believe in?" Hermione paused, and gave Malfoy a pointed glance. "Oh, but wait, you don't know him at all, anyway. If you really did, you'd never have done all those horrible things to him. You'd have known what a special person he is, if you'd only given yourself a chance to really know him."

I did, Draco thought to himself, even as Hermione returned to her book and smoothed out the creases where the pages had been crumpled because she had slammed it down on the table earlier. Of course I could see he was special, and I did give myself a chance to get to know him. But he *rejected* me. And that's all he's been doing ever since.

Rejection was a painful, bitter pill to swallow.

Draco pushed the memories of his first meeting with Harry aboard the Hogwarts Express back into the recesses of his mind— the memory of the coldness in Harry's eyes as he didn't take Draco's outstretched hand, Harry's cool, distant voice as he said I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks— and Draco recalled that it was the same, familiar remoteness he still sometimes saw in those clear green eyes.

Thinking about Harry was starting to make him feel distracted all over again, igniting the insistent ache that lurked at the fringes of his consciousness— Draco had to take his mind off Harry, off those shards of emerald pain that sliced deeper than the blade of a knife. He couldn't afford to dwell on those volatile thoughts, not when he was already feeling so unstable, not when they whispered things that were held far beyond his grasp. Dreams that would never, ever, be realised. Yearnings that corroded the soul, unfulfilled.

So, he decided to talk to Hermione, as ridiculous a form of stress-relief as that might have been. He looked up at Hermione, who was deeply absorbed in her book, chewing the tip of her eagle feather quill thoughtfully. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and she looked completely focused, so disciplined— an amusing thought occurred to Draco, and made him smile.

Hermione glanced up, and caught Draco with a roguish grin on his face. "What?" she asked waspishly.

Draco smirked. "I bet Potter made you promise just now not to get mad at me, didn't he?" he said in a knowing voice. "And you just lost your temper and yelled your head off at me. Ha."

"Oh shut up, Malfoy," Hermione snapped peevishly, although it secretly unnerved her how very perceptive Malfoy could be. "You were asking for a good shouting at, the way you were behaving."

"Oh yes. The masochist in me is just desperate for a good spanking."

"Eurgh," said Hermione, pretending she didn't hear Malfoy's last remark.

"Anyway, where did you learn to threaten like that?" Draco asked in a grudgingly impressed tone. "It's pretty effective and, er, vivid."

Hermione allowed a small smile. "When you grow up watching enough Muggle gangster movies, certain colourful phrases sort of stick in your mind and come in rather handy at times." She looked over at the book that Draco was leafing through, and nodded at it. "Why are you reading about Imperius?"

Draco appeared deep in thought for a few moments, before he carefully set the book down and looked squarely at Hermione. "Do you remember the essay I wrote for Lupin's class? About Imperius?"

Hermione nodded. "I remember. You said that love potions are related to the Imperius curse, in some ways. Although there are certain distinctive differences, such as the aspect of complete and constant control, which is a feature of Imperius but not love potions."

"But one of the major similarities between love potion and Imperius is the loss of conscious control, even if to different degrees." Draco paused. "Do you also remember that during Lupin's Imperius practical session, the only three people in class who were able to repel the curse were you, Potter and myself?"

Hermione nodded again. "I managed after a few tries, and Harry— well, he's had practice."

"Well," Draco continued, his voice low and grave, "the difference for me was, I didn't even have to try to fight it. Since I was already under the effect of the love potion, I was immune to any other curses of a similar nature, Imperius being included among them."

Hermione stared at him for a moment as understanding gradually dawned on her. "So..." she trailed off.

Draco looked directly at Hermione, his expression completely serious. "I've never actually been able to fight off Imperius before." His eyes were downcast; he hesitated for a moment, and bit on his lower lip. "My father has drilled me a few times in how to repel Imperius— I've managed to shake it off for about half a minute, but never completely like the way I did in Lupin's class."

Hermione stiffened slightly at the mention of Draco's Dark Arts 'training' back home; it was something she'd suspected all along. "So that's the reason why you managed to fight it off so easily during that lesson." She couldn't help remembering Ron's suspicions about Malfoy, and now she knew that Ron had been partly right— Malfoy's success hadn't been due to his own magical prowess.

"Yes." Draco spoke very softly, and he kept his eyes averted.

"So you get a lot of this kind of 'training' back home, then?" Hermione asked grimly.

"Everyone learns things in their childhood," Draco answered, in a careful, non-committal way. "You pick up useful tough-guy gangster lines, I pick up useful spells to get along in life. Same thing."

"It is not the same thing. The spells you mess with are Dark, and very dangerous— don't even get me started on the love potion, and also, it was a horrible thing you did to that beetle just now." Hermione's tone was a reprimanding one, and she shuddered involuntarily. "Don't ever do that again in front of me again."

"I didn't do anything horrible to it," Draco protested.

"Yes you did. You tortured it. You made it twitch and shudder."

"You call that torture?" Draco let out a derisive snort. "You know, Granger, if one day war breaks out, and you get captured by the enemy... you're in for a big surprise."

Hermione sobered, and started to contemplate the implications of what Draco had told her about the potion. "This love potion is more complex that I had thought. It's immune to the effect of Imperius, has healing powers… anything else I should know about?"

"I'll let you know if I turn into a fluffy white Valentine rabbit at the stroke of midnight, how about that?" Draco answered through clenched teeth, looking very aggrieved.

"That would be a simple and convenient solution," Hermione commented dryly. She took the book from Draco and began scanning through it. "And by the way, I want to borrow your Imperius essay, the one Lupin read out in class. The similarities you highlighted might toss up some interesting inferences, so we can go from there. And it must be worth something, for Lupin to have mentioned it." There was a muted tone of resentment in her voice, though it was not reproachful.

"Have you ever kissed Potter before?" Draco suddenly asked, very unexpectedly.

Hermione blinked, confused for a moment; then she considered the question. "Just the once, on the cheek," she answered, remembering her parting peck on Harry's cheek at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, more than two years back. "And that was some time ago."

Draco shook his head impatiently. "I'm talking about a proper kiss, Granger. On the mouth."

"No, I haven't."

"Why not?"

"Why not?" Hermione shot him a look. "Because he's my friend, that's why not."

"And friends don't kiss?"

"So should I be led to believe that you kiss Crabbe and Goyle on a regular basis?"

Draco sputtered, and made a face at Hermione. "Don't be disgusting, Granger."

"Suits your stupid reasoning." Hermione snapped irritably. "But I hear that you have no qualms about kissing Harry, even though he's not your friend." She paused, and then gave Draco an inquiring look. "But you don't really like him, do you?"

"Of course not," Draco retorted, too quickly, his voice flaring with agitation. "What does 'under the influence of a love potion' tell you, Granger? How about 'coerced love'? Of course I don't really love him. Don't be ridiculous."

Hermione arched an eyebrow, and thought, I asked if you liked him; I never said anything about love. But she said nothing, and let it pass as a slip of the tongue, a faux pas caused by the intoxication of the potion. Even though love and like were entirely different things altogether.

"So, do you like Pansy Parkinson, then?" Hermione asked, reluctantly curious.

Draco gave Hermione another withering look. "She looks a lot like my grandmother's ancient poodle. Oh yes, really hot and cute, in an ugly, senile sort of way."

"You took her to the Yule Ball," Hermione interjected fairly.

Draco shrugged. "There wasn't much of a choice, was there? There was Millicent Bulstrode, but I didn't quite fancy looking like I was leashed to a walking tree trunk on the dance floor." Hermione stifled a chortle at this; Draco looked mildly annoyed. "And I didn't want to go alone with Crabbe and Goyle, either."

"So you went with Pansy," Hermione said, rolling her eyes. "How charitable of you."

"Yep," Draco said airily. "I figured, what the hell. I mean, it's not a big deal, there's just that little blemish between her ears— her face."

"Why didn't you ask someone else from another house, then?" Hermione challenged. "Oh wait, don't tell me— it's the Slytherin pride thing."

"In a way," Draco conceded, with an offhanded shrug. "Actually, my father specifically instructed me that I was to take a pureblood Slytherin to the Ball, no less. Didn't leave many options for me, did it? Unless I went with Blaise Zabini. Maybe I should have, he's quite pretty and not a bad dancer, either. And he'd probably have let me lead, too." Draco paused, and tilted his head. "You know, Slytherins aren't as sexy as they're cranked up to be." Then he offered a lopsided, superior grin. "Of course, myself being the only exception."

Hermione muttered something about Slytherins definitely being as warped as they were cranked up to be, shook her head and went back to reading.

* * * * * * *

When he stepped through the portrait hole at quarter to six later that evening, Harry was extremely relieved to find Hermione sitting quietly in the corner of the Gryffindor common room, doing her homework. He went up to her and asked, "So?"

Hermione looked up as Harry collapsed into the chair opposite her. "So, what?"

"So how was it with Malfoy?" Harry asked anxiously, eyeing Hermione appraisingly. "Couldn't have been all that bad, could it? I mean, your presence here signifies that you two successfully refrained from ripping each other to shreds."

Hermione gave him a tired smile, and stretched. "Well, let's see. Malfoy made a snide remark, I lost my temper, and there was a general lot of yelling, most of it done by me, but in the end it worked out quite all right. He was unconscious for the rest of the time, anyway." Hermione burst out laughing at Harry's alarmed look. "Just kidding! He was pretty subdued, really. We actually managed to get some work done, and I found out a thing or two about him as well. I just came back about fifteen minutes ago."

"You found out a thing or two about him?" Harry echoed, sounding mildly incredulous. "You mean both of you were actually on civil, talking terms? At normal volumes?"

Hermione shrugged. "As I said, he wasn't as obnoxious as usual. And he did let slip a few things— about his family, for instance." Her expression darkened. "Lucius Malfoy has apparently been acquainting him with Dark curses— he inflicts them on Draco to train him to fight them off."

There was a significant pause; Harry looked troubled, and he finally said slowly, "So Ron's right, then. Malfoy does know too much about the Dark Arts."

Hermione nodded. "That's very disturbing, and not just because Malfoy probably grew up reciting curses instead of nursery rhymes. What worries me now is exactly that— Malfoy has a fairly strong background in Dark magic, but he still hasn't a clue about how to get around the love potion." She sighed. "I'm not very optimistic about finding a cure to it anytime soon, and definitely not before the game."

Harry groaned. "I suppose it's pointless to hope that the love potion will somehow wear off, given time?"

"Sure. Maybe a lifetime." Hermione sighed heavily, picked up her Potions textbook and began flipping through it; she was finally getting down to work on Snape's project, and she was already way behind schedule. "Look, Harry, we've reached a dead end here. That spellbook of Malfoy's isn't complete enough to base any plans on. The Latin quote turned out to be from a two-thousand-year-old epic poem, and the Greek myth isn't setting off any bells in my mind. And I've gone through every vaguely relevant book there is in the accessible sections of library. There simply isn't any available information that's useful to us."

Harry did some quick thinking. "Do you think there'll be anything useful in the Restricted Section?"

Hermione pondered. "There might be, but I'm not going to put any money on that. It may not be Hogwarts' policy to carry books which give explicit detail on how to concoct a banned potion, even if it's being shelved for research purposes." She paused, considering the scant options they had. "But anything's worth a shot, I suppose— do you think you can get a signed note? Or you can ask Malfoy to get one from Snape— he is the Potions Master, after all."

Harry ran his hand through his hair, pushing his fringe out of his eyes. "I'll let Malfoy know the next time I see him," he said wearily. He raised his eyes to look at Hermione, and they were clouded with frustration. "I don't know, Herm. This just feels all wrong."

Hermione glanced up, surprised at the confusion and uncertainty so evident in Harry's voice. "What do you mean, all wrong?"

"I mean, everything's just spinning the wrong way," Harry said, sitting back in his chair. "This whole deal with Malfoy— it's complicating a lot of other things, too. The Quidditch game. Having to worry about Ron finding out. And now, we're stumped as to whether or not there's a cure for the love potion in the first place. And Malfoy—" Harry paused in mid-sentence, as if casting for the right words to express his feelings.

"What about him?" Hermione queried, watching Harry carefully.

Harry hesitated, and then said slowly, "He already seems defeated— do you notice that about him? It's like he's lost hope, even before we know for sure how things will turn out, for better or worse."

Defeated? Hermione wondered with mild incredulity even in her mental voice. Draco Malfoy, defeated? That's certainly a first. Seems like this love potion sure precipitates a lot of 'firsts'. She tried to recall Malfoy's demeanour just a while ago— he hadn't exactly seemed defeated, at least not to her. He'd been more sombre and dejected than anything else. But he probably behaved differently with Harry— and unsurprisingly so.

"I think this whole thing has hit him pretty hard," Hermione answered thoughtfully. "I suppose falling in love the natural way is hard enough for most people— but for Malfoy now, it's more along the lines of being thrown into love, and he suddenly finds himself overwhelmed with strange, new feelings which he has no control over." She shuddered slightly. "Just thinking about it is scary enough. I can't imagine actually having to live it. Maybe that's the reason I'm cutting Malfoy some slack here and there."

Harry sighed, and a peculiar mix of unnamed feelings stirred troubled circles in his eyes as he cast a tired glance across the common room. "You know," he said softly, almost to himself, "I'm really not looking forward to the match tomorrow."

* * * * * * *

Draco awoke the next morning with a strange feeling of unease churning in the pit of his stomach, like a phantom ache so acutely entrenched that it penetrated the very fibre of his being, dark blood running deeper. He sat up abruptly, and the first coherent though that shot through his dream-slurred mind was that it was the day of the Quidditch match. He groaned softly, and rolled over on his side, closing his eyes, though by no means shutting out the fear.

How Slytherin was going to win the match, Draco had no idea. For starters, he hadn't been able to concentrate on Quidditch practice all week— a handful of times, he'd only narrowly missed the very embarrassing occurrence of being knocked off his broom by a Bludger hit by one of their own Beaters. Of course, Draco had yelled at the guilty Beater for being blind and senseless, but deep inside he knew that he hadn't been paying close enough attention.

And now, of all people to face today, he was playing against Harry. He didn't know how the hell he was going to play in an even remotely decent fashion, when all he would be able to think about on the pitch would be how fetching Harry looked, with windswept black hair framing his defined features and a light flush of excitement from the intense flying colouring his cheeks— and of course, Harry's fluid grace on his broomstick, which Draco had found stunning even without the influence of a love potion.

Draco got out of bed, deciding to abandon all thoughts of going back to sleep since it was already dawn anyway. He listlessly opened his drawer and took out his green Quidditch robes; just then, something heavy and metallic, which had been embedded amidst the clothes, fell out and struck the floor with a sharp hollow clang.

It was the handcuff. Harry's handcuff, in all its cruel silver glory.

Draco slowly bent to pick it up; it felt ice-cold to the touch, and rather heavy, as if laden with the dense memories of everything that surrounded its inception. Echoes of distant recollection sounded faintly in Draco's mind as he closed his eyes momentarily, and allowed himself to remember…

I'm not doing this to humiliate you, Malfoy.

Harry's voice was still vivid in his mind, even the quietly surprised tone that belied his words. So intense were the memories of the scene that Draco could almost feel the way the handcuff had bit into his wrist, coldly mocking; he remembered looking up at Harry, and seeing the burning sincerity in his eyes, which had been so genuine and truthful that the memory of it still remain undefiled by the bitterness which had festered since then.

In retrospect, Draco knew that Harry had meant what he had said, that he had really wanted to help him, not humiliate him. Of course, Harry never lied. But after all this while, Harry's sincerity was what struck Draco the deepest, even slicing past the layers of resentment and hurt and hatred to lay bare a certain realisation on his part, that perhaps Harry was as noble and virtuous and special as he was made out to be.

But each time he allowed himself to dwell on that thought, another irrational part of his mind would scream out that It's just the love potion talking! And call him Potter, for god's sakes!, and he would feel the swirling confusion start over again. Perhaps it really was the love potion wreaking havoc on his thoughts and feelings, and the tentative yet heartfelt attraction he felt toward Harry was just induced sentimentality. Because, really, with poisoned blood filtering through his heart with every throbbing pulse, he couldn't quite trust what his heart was telling him anymore.

Sighing heavily, Draco got to his feet and carefully slipped the handcuff back into the drawer, camouflaging it amidst a bundle of socks stockpiled for the winter. A quivering spark shivered through his fingertips as they came into brief contact with Harry's name, etched in the smooth outer surface of the cuff, and whispering thrills involuntarily coursed up Draco's spine.

Controlled. Owned. Harry's.

Futilely shaking the scattered thoughts from his head, Draco made his way out of the Slytherin dungeon to take a shower, with the silent, engraved taunt of being the branded possession of H J Potter still ringing in his ears, flooding the plains of his consciousness, compounding his helpless desperation.

* * * * * * *

Hermione lingered just outside the changing rooms, waiting for Harry to fetch his Firebolt from the broom shed. Because the Quidditch match had been rescheduled to a Wednesday instead of the usual Saturday due to the pitch resurfacing work, the school was given the day off to watch the game. It now was a quarter to eleven, fifteen minutes before the match was scheduled to begin, and Ron was already inside, chattering animatedly with the rest of the Gryffindor team as they changed into their scarlet Quidditch robes. Hermione wanted to catch a quick word with Harry before he went in to give his team the usual pre-match pep talk.

Harry appeared, looking decidedly more tense than usual, although his broom was casually slung over his left shoulder, and his own set of Quidditch robes draped over his right arm. He offered a wry grin when he caught sight of Hermione, but it quickly faded into a subdued, troubled expression.

Hermione gave him an encouraging smile. "You feeling all right?"

Harry forced another smile. "Okay, I guess. A little worried. You know."

"Look, Harry—" Hermione's expression sobered considerably, and she wore a grave look of concern as she leaned forward, "I don't know what plan you have in mind, but I think you should just play as normally as you can. Act as if nothing's happened between you and Malfoy— because this match means a lot to Gryffindor, and Ron in particular." She looked searchingly at Harry. "What I mean is, don't just throw away this match, you know?"

"I know," Harry replied tersely, mild agitation edging his tone. "I know what to do, all right?"

"Okay." Hermione gave him an anxious glance, but wisely left it at that. She could sense his apprehension and misgivings about the match, and she wouldn't go so far as to say they were completely unfounded. But she offered him a broad smile to hide her own uneasiness. "It's going to be all right, Harry, don't worry. This is just a game, after all—" she dropped her voice, "and the love potion shouldn't affect it much if both of you just concentrate on playing the match." She patted him on the shoulder. "Give it your best shot, Harry."

Harry's tenseness eased somewhat as he flashed her a quick, grateful smile and nodded, then disappeared into the changing room. Hermione watched him go, then turned and walked back out toward the spectator stands, where students had already gathered; as she rounded a bend, she abruptly came face-to-face with Draco Malfoy.

Hermione stiffened when she saw Draco; she swallowed her first impulse of giving him a cordial nod, and instead, she waited for him to react first. Now that they were in public view of other people, she privately wondered if Draco would be as forthcoming as he had been the day before, when they were alone in the Charms classroom.

Draco drew to a halt, and eyed Hermione appraisingly for a few moments; he didn't greet her, although with the briefest nod he acknowledged her presence, and then gracefully sidestepped her. As he passed her he turned slightly in her direction, and Hermione saw the imperceptible upward curl of the edges of Draco's mouth; he gave her the quickest of enigmatic glances, then, in the blink of an eye, it was as if he hadn't turned to her at all, and he continued on his way to the changing rooms without a backward glance.

Hermione's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she watched his retreating figure. Draco seemed calm and composed enough— even more collected than Harry was, frankly. Hermione was worried, as a thought had occurred to her last night that Harry might give Draco some leeway during the match as consideration, because of the love potion— and knowing Malfoy, as intensely competitive as he was, he might just about be able to separate his feelings from the demanding contest between himself and Harry and play it like a fair, normal game. And when it came to Malfoy, 'fair' still meant a lot of sneaky and devious tactics even without being overtly antagonistic. Essentially, this likely scenario would mean that Harry might end up throwing away a perfectly good match for nothing.

Weighed down with a heavy heart, Hermione made her way up to the top row of stands to join the other Gryffindors. For once, she didn't know what to expect, and this distinctly unsettled her. She wasn't quite sure that Harry would take her advice, either. Truthfully she wasn't even sure if Harry actually really wanted to win the match, or if he was too distracted to be single-minded about victory. Hermione sighed; she supposed that she should feel glad that Draco seemed to be in all right shape, but that only complicated the possible outcome of this mercurial match even further.

Ron materialised from the crowds by her side; he looked cheerful and energised, and he was clearly all geared up for the match ahead. "Hey Herm— the match is going to kick off in a few minutes time— Harry's just having a couple more words with the team. They should be out any moment now."

They reached the top row, where Neville and Dean were already seated, waiting. Ron proceeded to whip out his pair of Omnioculars, which Harry had bought him at the Quidditch World Cup, and began tuning it to the correct settings. Hermione cast him a mildly amused glance— Ron had certainly came to the match well equipped.

Ron scanned the stands, which were now filled with chattering students, the excitement of this crucial clash peaking as kick-off drew closer. He peered through his Omnioculars, adjusting it until he could see the pitch below clearly— he saw the doors to the changing room open, and Gryffindor team marched onto the field, led by Harry.

"They're out!" Ron announced to the others, feeling a surge of anticipation rise within him. From the raised seats it was hard to see the pitch far below, where the two teams had now emerged and were making their way to the centre of the field; however, the Omnioculars efficiently magnified everything to a comfortable size and detail, and Ron's attention gradually fell on Harry.

Ron noticed the pensively troubled expression on Harry's face; he turned to Hermione, and commented, "Harry doesn't look very happy today." He looked in the Omnioculars again, only to see Harry turning his head slightly and staring off into the distance, as if something else far away was holding his attention instead of the match at hand. "Is something bothering him?"

"He's been stressed out lately," Hermione answered equivocally, trying to sound as casual and offhand as she could. She cast a sidelong glance at Ron, wondering if he suspected anything out of the ordinary. "He's been through a lot recently— way too much on his hands with way too little time."

"Hmm, true," Ron answered absently; something else had caught his attention. Ron had turned the direction of his Omnioculars slightly and Draco Malfoy appeared in view, strutting in front of the Slytherin team. Ron's eyes hardened as he saw Malfoy, and he added in a disgusted tone, "Oh, I really hope we flatten Slytherin today. And maybe something unpleasant will happen to Malfoy and wipe that smirk off his face for a really long time."

"Ron," Hermione said sharply. "Don't say things like that. Besides, don't you know that if you curse your opponent before a match, you might just about end up bringing misfortune upon yourself?"

"Faerie myth," Ron scoffed, although he left off detailing what other conveniently nasty things might happen to Malfoy. He kept the Omnioculars trained on Malfoy, watching him critically. "Harry's making his way onto the pitch— oh, just look at the way Malfoy's staring at him. He obviously has something going for Harry."

Hermione smothered a soft noise that sounded like a cross between a snort and a gurgle.

"Are there spells that can be cast just by staring at a person?" Ron continued, oblivious to Hermione's response, too engrossed in what was happening down on the pitch. "Because Malfoy is looking at Harry in a really weird way— he must be trying to hex Harry without him knowing, that bastard! — Harry! Harry! Turn around and look at Malfoy! — ah, now Harry's caught sight of him. Good."

Down on the Quidditch pitch, Harry felt the weight of a gaze fixed upon him. Extricating himself from his conflicting thoughts, he turned around to find Draco looking at him from about fifty feet away, his silver grey eyes lit with the turbulence of a brewing storm. And even across the distance, Harry could somehow sense Malfoy's confusion and quiet anguish, and strangely enough, it mirrored a facet of his own torn feelings about exactly how he was going to approach this particular showdown between them.

Draco saw Harry turn to look at him, and for an eternal moment their eyes met and held; instantly Draco found himself being drawn into those eyes of calm emerald, so far away yet also, impossibly near. They were like jade mirrors, showing nothing but reflecting everything, and in Harry's eyes Draco could feel his own fear and insecurity, the sinking trepidation coiled with the rising tension within him born of the potion in his blood flaring to life, flaying his nerves with a sensation of gentlest agony.

Then Harry looked away, and the fragile perfection shattered to pieces once again.

Madam Hooch had already made her way to the middle of the pitch, and a short blow of her whistle signalled that the teams should get ready for play. She waved the two captains over for the pre-match formalities. Draco slowly walked toward her, and his measured footfalls closing the distance between him and Harry reflected his own apprehension and silent dread.

"All right now, captains, shake hands," Madam Hooch instructed, as Harry and Draco both drew to a halt in front of her.

Harry glanced up at Draco, and seemed to hesitate for a moment— Draco watched him evenly, an ambiguous emotion darting in his eyes. Their gazes met and held again; Draco extended his hand in a slow graceful way, and Harry reached over and grasped it with his own.

The sensation was electric. Draco could feel the warmth of Harry's palm nestled against his own, and the firm pressure exerted by Harry's slim fingers as they closed over his— it was as if that single touch distilled every fibre of emotion they shared, or rather, he felt for Harry. The disconcertion churned to the surface once more as the noise from the impatient crowd in the stands faded to a faint hum in the background, like inarticulate shouting heard from underwater.

Then Harry released his hand, breaking contact, and Draco automatically pulled away and stepped back, trying to push the reckless confusion out of his thoughts, but it still lingered on the frontier of his mind. Draco looked inquisitively at Harry, who wore an impassive expression on his face, and he wondered if Harry had felt the liquid current of emotions that leaked between them— if he had, Harry certainly wasn't showing it. It was amazing how they could both maintain such a distant air of nonchalance, even after they'd been so intimately close those times before.

"Mount your brooms," Madam Hooch was saying; Draco mechanically got onto his broom, all the while watching Harry straddle his Firebolt, noticing the way Harry swung his right leg over the side of the broom handle, and volatile mental images rose unbidden in his mind. No.

NO. Draco repeated to himself, like a feverish mantra, furious at his own lack of control. Stop thinking about Harry. Concentrate on the damn match. Concentrate.

Harry looks so damn good like this now. And the way he straddles his broom...

*Concentrate*!

The shrill sound of the whistle, and the match was underway. Gryffindor quickly gained possession as both sides tested the waters, trying to gauge each other's strategy and attacking style. Slytherin vs. Gryffindor had never been an easy tie— the margin of victory, either way, was always slim, all the more accentuating the importance of catching the Snitch as soon as possible.

The weather was the only thing to be joyful about— the skies were clear and cloudless, a crystalline sort of brightness filling an otherwise pale winter morning. The air was crisp and cool, and Harry could feel the gentle sting of the dry breeze caressing his face as he gracefully guided his broom skywards. He glanced around, and saw Malfoy a short distance away, scouring the surroundings for any trace of fluttering gold. Draco seemed perfectly fine, his manner focused and unaffected, although Harry noticed the way Draco was gripping the handle of his broom— very, very tightly, until his knuckles stood out like flecks of snow, as if he was holding on to a lifeline which was slipping from his grasp.

Down below, Seamus Finnigan was commentating: "Gryffindor begins their defence of the title, Seeker Harry Potter takes to the skies on his Firebolt as his Slytherin counterpart Malfoy trails miles behind on— what's that, only a Nimbus? No competition when it comes to brooms, even less so when it comes to talent."

Seamus' commentary was greeted with boos from the Slytherin crowd, and Professor McGonagall crossly leaned over and warned, "Finnigan, personal opinions to yourself!" (Lee Jordan would have been proud of his successor.)

Draco gritted his teeth as he flew in a careful arc, circling the pitch. The rustling wind wasn't strong enough to drown the commentary, and he heard Seamus' less-than-savoury remarks about him. He hated to be reminded of his inferior broom— his father had flatly refused to upgrade his broom until he managed to beat Harry Potter in a Quidditch match, a task that he had yet to accomplish. Draco wasn't quite sure if today was going to improve his chances of getting the latest Firebolt II, which was slated to hit the stores early next year.

Draco stopped listening to the commentary and concentrated on looking for the Snitch. Looking for the Snitch. Somehow it was a lot easier said than done, when his mind seemed more interested in looking at Harry. Draco saw Harry hovering a few hundred feet away from him, intently scanning the skies, perfectly centred on the task at hand. Easy for him. So very easy.

Harry cast a furtive glance at Draco, who was lingering a distance away. He had been surreptitiously watching Draco for the most part of the match so far— from the looks of it, Draco was getting steadily more distracted, less composed, less focused on the game instead of… something else. And twice Draco almost collided with another player, simply because he hadn't been watching where he was flying. To Harry, it seemed more as if Draco was just trying to look like he was searching for the Snitch, than actually like he was really trying to catch it.

Harry was concerned. It was emotionally draining to have to keep up facades like that— Harry knew it only too well. Harry remembered all those nights he had curled up in his little cupboard back in Privet Drive, his face wet with silent tears, his mind awake with wistful dreams, and he knew how hard it had been to dry his eyes and pretend everything was fine when the morning came so that they wouldn't know he had been sleepless and so very miserable.

Harry was on the verge of flying over to ask Draco if he was all right, when suddenly he saw Draco's broom lurch into a sharp dive— for the fleeting heartbeat of a moment Harry thought that Draco had lost control of his broom, or had fainted, but before he could recover from his initial surprise he saw the shimmer of silver-gold fluttering near the ground, by the Slytherin goal-posts. And Draco was racing toward it, even as Seamus shouted, "The Snitch! The Snitch has been sighted!"

Harry recovered from his shock quickly, and tore after Malfoy, pushing his Firebolt as fast as it could possibly go. Malfoy had quite a sizeable head start already, and Harry's heart sank even as he leaned forward on his broom, aligning his own body parallel against the handle to reduce air resistance. The passing wind hissed in his ear like a crackling flame establishing itself, and he hurtled after Malfoy, steadily gaining ground— now he was inches away from the tail of Malfoy's Nimbus, but it was no good, Draco was already closing in on the Snitch—

All of a sudden, out of nowhere a Bludger burst onto the scene, like a black fist hitting through the air. With considerable force it struck the tail of Draco's broom, disrupting its delicate balance in mid-flight and sending Draco's Nimbus spinning out of control. Harry hastily swerved away to dodge the ricocheting Bludger and avoid colliding with Malfoy— Harry took his eyes off the Snitch for that split-second just to steady himself, and when he looked again it had vanished. Harry cursed inwardly, utterly frustrated.

On the other hand, Draco struggled to regain control of his broom, alarmed as it launched into a dangerous dip— he seized the handle and yanked it upward, forcing the broom into a steep climb so as not to brush against the ground and wreck the flailing balance any further. He managed to manoeuvre it away from a likely nose-down crash and returned to a safe altitude, his Nimbus slightly wounded by the assault of the Bludger. Draco turned around to assess the damage— not severe, although a few twigs had been ruffled out of place. He swore heatedly, dimly aware of the ripple of excitement rising from the crowd in the stands.

Truthfully, Draco hadn't expected to detect the Snitch so soon. He hadn't even been looking for it— noticing it hovering above the ground next to the Slytherin goal-posts while he had been briefly assessing the performance of their Keeper had been just a stroke of luck. Even in his distracted frame of mind, Draco had reflexively gone after it, based on the pure instinct of any Seeker. Part of him had been relieved, really, even as he had chased down the pitch toward the tiny fluttering Snitch, because if he caught the Snitch the game would end, and the insidious torment of flying alongside Harry would be over. And that was all he wanted for now, even more than he desired the glory of winning the game or the prospect of getting a new broom from his father as a reward. Damn that bloody Bludger.

In the stands, Ron was bellowing and jumping up and down, which Hermione found decidedly distracting, although she was too engrossed in the game to tell him to calm down. There was a roar of anticipation from the spectators as Harry and Draco both raced after the Snitch, Draco in the lead but with Harry swiftly gaining on him— then the Bludger, expertly hit by the Gryffindor Beater, had scattered them both, and the Snitch in the process as well. Hermione found that her lower lip hurt from where she had been biting down on it, and she winced.

To say that Ron was worked up would be a gross understatement— he was positively livid. "What the hell is wrong with Harry?" he yelled in utter despair. "Malfoy saw the Snitch first, can you believe it? For crying out loud he almost caught it, did you see that? What is Harry doing?"

"Maybe Harry didn't see it," Hermione said nervously, still chewing on her lip as she watched Malfoy and Harry rise to the skies again, where they could have an eagle eye view of the action.

"Didn't see it?" Ron sputtered incredulously, waving his Omnioculars around in an exaggerated manner. "Harry always manages to see it first, that's why he can go after it and win the game!" Ron raked a hand through his red hair, which matched the colour flushing his cheeks now. "What's the matter with Harry? He just isn't being attentive enough!"

Hermione secretly agreed, although she had a far better idea than Ron did about exactly why Harry wasn't being attentive enough. This was as she had predicted and feared— Harry, being overly fair and noble, would end up watching out for Malfoy more than he watched out for the Snitch, just so he could convince himself that Malfoy was indeed managing all right, throwing away the victory in the process. Frustrated and helpless, all Hermione could do was watch and hope that Harry would come to his senses quickly and start to really play the game, the way he always did.

As he looped back up to a decent altitude, Harry was furious with himself. He was angry that he had been so stupid to put his own personal matters ahead of the good of the team and Gryffindor's chances of victory, and that he had been foolish enough to worry that Malfoy might not be all right. He should have known— heck, he did know— what a fiercely competitive person Malfoy was, and he should have guessed that being under a love potion would have no effect on the potency of Malfoy's threat on the Quidditch pitch.

Harry shook his head, still disgusted with himself, and partly angry with Malfoy as well. He should have listened to Hermione; he recalled her anxious words to him outside the changing room, Act as if nothing's happened between you and Malfoy... don't just throw away this match. Harry couldn't help feeling that he had let her down somewhat.

Well, not anymore. Harry gripped his broom determinedly, and arced in a reckless circle in mid-air, diving abruptly and speeding down the length of the pitch at breathtaking speed just to vent some of his own frustration. Now I'm *really* going to play— and I'm going to *win* this match.

Draco reflexively jerked his head in Harry's direction when the other boy made a sudden dive, as if he had spotted the Snitch— he instinctively followed Harry, although with mere half-hearted resolve. A persistent headache was seeping into his skull, blunting his alertness; Draco suddenly felt very exhausted, as if the exertion of flying was draining him of his last shreds of energy. He knew his concentration was faltering— and as he lingered near Harry, he sensed something else, too.

Harry was angry with him. Draco could sense it, radiating like heat waves of scarlet, crackling like a raving bonfire between them. It was a harsh, unyielding sort of sensation— it wasn't very intense, but it definitely could be felt, like underlying currents running through the invisible threads that bound them together. The sensation sent hot chills up Draco's spine— it was a pleasantly uncomfortable feeling, if there was ever such a thing; like butterflies and needles, roses and thorns.

Of course, Draco knew why Harry was mad at him. Harry was angry that he had gone after the Snitch first. Draco knew that their unsettled predicament had affected Harry as well, because in any other situation Harry would definitely have spotted the Snitch first, especially when it was in such an obvious location. And now in the furious backlash, Harry was really taking the game to Draco, twisting and weaving in between the other players and dodging the Bludgers with sharp precision, as if recklessly trying to throw Draco off his trail as he sought out the elusive Snitch once more. Draco could see that Harry was purposefully ignoring him.

Faintly Draco could hear Seamus' excited commentary: "...and a heart-stopping moment when Slytherin's Seeker almost had the Snitch between his fingers, before a cleverly placed Bludger by Gryffindor's Beater thwarted the surprising attempt. Malfoy almost falls off his broom in the process— well, better luck next time, mate." Draco could hear the smirk in Seamus' voice. "We continue play, with everyone more than a little ruffled by the early Snitch sighting, a mere seven minutes into the game."

Seven minutes? Draco could barely believe his ears. It felt more like seven hours. Surely it couldn't only have been seven minutes. He groaned inwardly as he followed Harry's zigzagging trail from a loose distance, moving more out of subconscious reflex than actual intention. How long is this torture going to last?

The worst part was that Draco had no idea how long the match would last. This was the exciting, unknown element of a Quidditch match: the continual anticipation about the duration of it, whether it would end in the next second or last for the next fortnight. Either option was equally possible; literally, it could go on forever.

In this particular aspect, Draco realised, it was no different from the love potion. He had found himself plagued by this exact feeling of timeless dread in the past days and nights, like staring helplessly into the dark, fathomless column of a well that he'd dropped a necklace down; it was a dense darkness that extended forever, the shimmer of hope dim like watery light glinting off black water. Sinister. Fearful. Endless.

Oh god, when will this ever end? Draco asked himself desperately; and he wasn't quite sure if he was only referring to this Quidditch match.

Harry glanced around, keeping a keen eye out for Draco; unsurprisingly, he saw Draco fly toward him again. Harry noticed something strange, something different about Malfoy's flying style today— he seemed almost scared, which Harry inferred from the way Draco clutched his broomstick so tightly with both hands as he wove between the other players in a careful, guarded manner. It seemed as if Draco was afraid that he was really going to fall off his broomstick.

"Gryffindor lead Slytherin fifty points to forty," Seamus announced, bringing Harry's drifting thoughts back into focus on the game again. "Slytherin are giving away more penalties than they can afford— not that anyone's complaining— Slytherin's Keeper seems intent on committing every single foul in the book. Gryffindor have taken three penalties already, slotted away with no problem at all, and they're in possession now..."

Draco turned away from the mellow glare of the sun and found himself looking in Harry's direction once more. The dull ache in Draco's head grew steadily worse, accelerated by the darkly heated vibes he was getting off Harry, and there seemed to be no way for Draco to insulate himself against that. It combined with the volatile potion in his veins like a crimson tide, rushing up the shores of his mind and obliterating coherent thought— Draco lost control momentarily, and that was all it took for his broom to spin off on a tangent—

"And Slytherin's Keeper has committed yet another foul," Seamus was remarking dryly, "Now we can add 'poke the opposite team's Chaser hard in the stomach with your broomstick handle' to the list of professional fouls." While most of the players on the pitch were engaged in the furor at the Slytherin end of the field, Harry took the opportunity to scan the grounds for the Snitch— and then he saw it, hovering in mid-air near the Gryffindor goal-posts this time, like a golden snowflake illuminated by the pale sunlight. The Snitch.

Harry froze for a moment, his heart leaping in exhilaration; then the shock melted away, and he rushed forward, putting on a spectacular burst of speed as he raced toward the Snitch, the brilliant, unmistakable sparkle against the backdrop of blue sky—

—all of a sudden, Draco appeared out of nowhere in front of him, blocking his path and forcing him to twist sharply off-course, jerking away from a headlong crash at the very last instant.

"Sod off, Malfoy!" Harry yelled angrily, as he wrenched his broom sideways, veering away from a collision just a second before impact; he had even felt the hem of Draco's robes graze against his arm as they passed. Harry took a moment to steady his broom and orientate himself back on track— he spun around to glare at Malfoy, but what he next saw made his eyes widen with dawning horror. "Malfoy?"

Draco was dimly aware of Harry shouting at him, although he couldn't quite figure out what Harry was yelling— Draco's fingers released their hold on the handle of his broom, and his sense of balance vanished with a shrill siren of silence, and then, he was falling… he seemed to fall for an eternity, suspended in the air like a weightless feather— Draco shut his eyes and surrendered to the dark pulse that thrilled through his veins, before the ground finally struck him with a dull, sickening thud, and he was plunged into a chasm of empty nothingness.

Harry watched in undisguised horror as Draco tumbled off his broomstick and fell to the ground, his body limp and seemingly lifeless, looking so painfully delicate and fragile— he glanced back over his shoulder, where the Golden Snitch was still fluttering enticingly, just a few feet above him— then Harry looked back at Draco, falling through the crisp air as if in slow-motion, and he didn't have to think twice.

Harry pointed his broom downwards and tore after Draco's falling form— it was the same sort of nose-dive he had executed back in his first year, where he was racing with the force of gravity to save Neville's Remembrall. It was the same whistling exhilaration as he ripped through the tense atmosphere, dangerously and recklessly— but now, Draco hit the ground before Harry could draw level, and the dull impact of Draco's body on the ground jarred Harry equally much, like a jolt of reality.

Draco had landed awkwardly, crashing straight into the hedge lining the far end of the Quidditch pitch, opposite from the spectator stands. The brittle, leaf-stripped branches crunched under the weight of Draco's unconscious body, the serrated ends of the brown twigs tearing through Draco's clothing, cutting deep, rough grazes on his flesh.

In the stands, the students were in uproar, especially those who had seen the startling episode in mid-air, with the almost-caught Snitch and Malfoy's subsequent fall. And Ron, who had turned his attention briefly away from the dispute over the Gryffindor penalty, had seen all of it through his Omnioculars. So had Hermione.

"Hermione!" Ron shouted, staring into the Omnioculars and simultaneously shaking Hermione's arm. "Oh my god! Was that the Snitch? — Harry and Malfoy just crashed, and Malfoy's fallen off his broom— Harry's going down too, oh no…"

Hermione was too stunned to react, and she watched the scene unfold as if it was playing out in slow motion, like a surreal nightmare beyond her worst fears. She let out an involuntary gasp and clapped her hand over her mouth as Malfoy plummeted through the last twenty feet of air and crashed into the hedges— she squinted desperately, praying that Harry was all right. Had he and Malfoy crashed in mid-air? Or…

"Is Harry hurt?" Ron hollered to make himself heard above the din; he anxiously peered through the Omnioculars, zooming in as much as he could. "Did he fall? — no, he seems to be conscious, he's all right I think—" Ron looked up, and glanced worriedly down the other end of the pitch. "Do the others know that Harry and Malfoy collided? Oh, Madam Hooch just saw, she's going over right now… my god, Hermione, did you see that? Malfoy could've killed Harry!"

Harry landed on the ground just seconds after Draco did; he staggered slightly from the abrupt landing as he skidded to a halt, and he felt a pang of pain shoot through his right ankle. He ignored it as he hastily got off his broom and dropped to his knees next to Draco. Draco was lying on his side, facing away from Harry; as Harry turned Draco over, he let out a soft exclamation, and then swore— he'd expected bruises, yes, but he hadn't expected this.

There was a deep gash across Draco's forehead, linear and running parallel to the neat arch of Draco's eyebrows. Blood was flowing freely forth, running in narrow crimsons streams down Draco's left temple, staining dark patches of maroon on his green Quidditch robes. Flecks of red clung to the tips of silvery-blond hair, which framed Draco's face, and his pale left cheek was stained with new grazes as well. It was like somewhat of a travesty of nature— blossoming fresh red mingled with cream-white skin, cut by rotting brown, dead twigs. It looked wrong, so very wrong.

Suddenly, something occurred to Harry; without thinking, he automatically reached out his hand and laid it flat against Draco's bleeding forehead, without any hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and—

—Nothing happened.

Harry stared, disbelieving; he laid his hand against Draco's forehead for a few more long moments, but there was no shiver of healing beneath his fingers, like he had felt that night when Draco had slashed his own chest and placed Harry's hand to the seething knife-wound. Now, nothing happened, not a single thing.

Harry brought his hand away from Draco's forehead, dazed; his hand was matted with blood, Draco's blood, wet and warm between his fingers with the pulse of life. Draco's life. Suddenly Harry was scared, alarmed by the sight of vivid red seeping between his parted, quivering fingers— the sight of his hand stained with blood. Draco's blood. A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Harry: how if Draco was dead?

Harry reached over and took Draco's limp right hand, pulling it toward him; he ran his fingers over the tender pulse point on Draco's inner wrists, desperately feeling for the faint quiver of veins beneath skin—

Suddenly, Draco's eyes fluttered open. Harry froze, his fingers rigidly gripping Draco's wrist. "Malfoy?"

Draco's eyes were glazed and unseeing, the tarnished grey of his pupils hazed with stupor. Harry shook him gently, although with urgency and mounting desperation. "Draco? Can you hear me?" For the briefest of moments, Draco's eyes seemed to focus, and an expression akin to that of recognition flitted across Draco's face; then, his eyes closed with delicate weariness, and didn't open again.

Harry nudged Draco once more, harder this time, but to no avail. Draco's eyelids remained closed and he was unresponsive. Harry turned around in wild helplessness, and yelled at the top of his voice, "Over here! Help! Malfoy's fallen off his broom!"

Harry turned back to Draco. There were stray locks of hair tickling Draco's lashes, and Harry tried to push Draco's fringe away from the bleeding wound, rubbing off more blood on Draco's blond hair in the process, which was now like silver silk dyed with drops of red ink. Again, Harry tried not to dwell on how strangely unnatural that looked; even though the red and golden-blond stood out in stark complement, it still unsettled him immensely.

A rustling flurry of broomsticks nearby alerted Harry that help had finally arrived— he looked up to find the other players running up to where he and Draco were, led by a very flustered Madam Hooch, who had waved over Madam Pomfrey, stationed by the sidelines on standby. Harry was incredibly relieved to see them, because he had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do next, or even how to stop the bleeding. Right now he had his right hand pressed over the cut on Draco's forehead to stem the flow; blood was still seeping in between his fingers, but at least it wasn't bleeding as profusely as before.

"Potter! Are you all right?" The next thing Harry knew Madam Hooch was by his side, her face knitted with worry and instant alarm as she saw Draco's wound, ugly and seething and disfiguring on his pale face. But she quickly recovered from her shock, and her procedural reflex kicked in as she pulled Harry away from Draco, just as Madam Pomfrey arrived on the scene. "Potter, move back now— can you hear me clearly, Potter? Can you hear what I'm saying?"

Harry wondered if Madam Hooch was vaguely mad, because he could hear perfectly clearly what she was saying and he reckoned that she should be seeing to Draco, not him. What Harry didn't know was that his forearms and face were smeared with fresh blood, and his hands full of red stains, so from Madam Hooch's point of view, it seemed that Harry was likewise injured as Draco was, perhaps only slightly better off because he was conscious.

"I'm all right, Madam Hooch— Malfoy's hurt—" Harry tried to say, amidst a barrage of questions that Madam Hooch was asking him; whether he could walk, whether his feet hurt, if his hands were numb… He finally gave up trying to talk, since she clearly wasn't listening to him, or rather, not giving him a chance to say anything more than a monosyllabic answer.

Harry felt himself behind lifted to his feet, and behind him there was an excited assortment of voices, Madam Pomfrey's telling everyone to 'Calm down! Stand back!' being the loudest among them. Harry winced as he put his weight down on the foot that had been injured earlier when he had landed on the ground; Madam Hooch saw Harry flinch, and she helped him walk properly by supporting him along the way. Harry tried to turn around to see what was happening to Draco— he briefly saw a stretcher being conjured, but then a wave of vertigo suddenly overwhelmed him and he had to close his eyes. His foot was hurting more now, and he suddenly felt exhausted— his eyes seemed to sting, like needles under his eyelids... now, he was indistinctly aware that Madam Hooch had magicked a stretcher and was helping him onto it.

"The game has been unexpectedly stopped…" Harry heard Seamus' voice through the magical megaphone, booming loudly over the noise of the crowd. "It seems that Gryffindor and Slytherin have both lost their Seekers, who were involved in a mid-air collision— Potter is being escorted off the pitch now, he's limping— Malfoy appears to be unconscious, he clearly came off the worse in the crash…"

And those were the last few words Harry heard, before he was carried away from the pitch in the direction of the hospital wing; exhaustion chased away the tentative strands of coherent thought, and Harry was too dazed to answer the single question foremost in his mind: What the hell just happened?

9 The Edge of Reason

But love can hope where reason would despair.

Ironically enough, it was the soft sound of a door clicking shut that sent Draco's mind back into the realm of consciousness; the oblivion of darkness scattered as rays of wakefulness streamed back like silver light behind his closed lids. A dull pain in his temples was all that remained of the sharp agony he remembered just before everything had gone black— and Draco could still feel the memory of falling, plunging through an endless expanse, gripped by nothing but fear...

A quiet rustle jolted him out of the chilling memory and back into reality. There was someone in the room with him. Draco kept his eyes closed, not moving a muscle, his ears keen as he heard soft footsteps pacing near him, drawing closer; footsteps echoing in the warmth of silence, weighted with careful confidence yet tentatively hesitant, and completely unmistakable.

Harry's footsteps, of course.

Draco didn't need to open his eyes to know that Harry was standing barely a few feet away from him. He could sense Harry's presence near him, could feel the exciting tension that laced the air between them. It was an exhilaratingly painful sensation, one that made him feel like reaching over to touch Harry; at the same time it made him want to just fall back into the empty nothingness that he had emerged from, so that Harry would go away and not be there when he woke again.

Even as his confused stupor faded, the fragile remembrance still clung to the fringes of his mind in a surreal vision of reality. Draco couldn't be sure that it wasn't just a figment of his delirious mind-moments, just before he had lost consciousness; but he remembered opening his eyes, and the first person he had seen was Harry. And Harry had been leaning over him, and holding his hand; he had seen Harry's lips move, whispering silent words, words that felt tender and pure and so comforting, words that said that everything would be all right.

But he knew better, Draco thought bitterly. Everything would never be all right. It must have been a dream. Just another dream.

The last vestiges of pain in his body ebbed away; Draco vaguely wondered how far he had fallen, and how badly he had been hurt. He would have very much liked to sit up and inspect his bruises, if not for the fact that he seemed frozen in a waking coma simply because Harry was standing next to him. Yes, Harry was standing right next to him, somewhere directly to his left— he could feel it.

Just then the door opened again, and Draco heard the sound of Madam Pomfrey bustling into the room, accompanied by the tinny clattering of a tray being set down on the bedside table, presumably carrying his medicine. Draco realised that he was feeling rather hungry.

"Potter, you should be lying down," Draco heard Madam Pomfrey chiding, confirming what he had known all along. "I just fixed your ankle, and you shouldn't be walking all over the place..."

"Is he all right?" Harry's voice spoke up quietly, underscored with concern. Draco's heart did a funny little skip— actually, it felt more like a feather being dropped in a vacuum. It was a dense fluttery feeling, which didn't feel very right but felt pleasant all the same.

"He'll be fine," came Madam Pomfrey's curt reply, "no broken bones or cracked ribs, just a little shaken up. The fall looked a lot worse than it really was, frankly."

"But he got badly scratched when he crashed into the bushes..." Harry's soft interjection was still doubtful, and quietly anxious.

"I cleaned them up, most of them were just surface injuries." Madam Pomfrey sounded impatient, and she repeated, "He'll be fine, in fact he should be awake anytime now. The Nurture Spell has a mild tranquillising effect, but that should wear off soon. Nothing to worry about. Now I want you to go back outside, and sit down in the waiting room for another good fifteen minutes. If you feel well enough by then, you can go back to your dormitory. Now shoo, Potter, out with you."

"Thanks," was the last thing Draco heard Harry say, and then the door closed, and he knew that Harry was gone. Trust Harry to be so polite even when having been told to go away.

Draco kept his eyes closed and continued to pretend to be asleep as he mulled over what he'd just heard. The conversation cast some light on what had happened— apparently after he had fallen off his broom, which was the last thing he could remember doing, he had crashed into the bushes and scratched himself quite badly. And Harry had come over to see if he was all right.

Draco tilted his head back and bit on his lower lip. For some reason, that mattered much, much more than everything else he'd heard.

Madam Pomfrey had refused to let anyone who wasn't a blood-drenched Seeker into the hospital wing, so Harry was alone; he sat down on the sofa in the waiting area outside the room Draco was in. Technically, he mused wryly to himself, he didn't even qualify to be there, either, since he had been stained with Draco's blood and not his own.

Madam Pomfrey had been so relieved that he wasn't badly injured that she hadn't even paused to question why he had emerged so unscathed from the alleged 'collision', while his counterpart had been knocked unconscious. Harry did sustain a swollen ankle, but that was about the extent of his injuries after he had cleaned off the smears of Draco's blood on his arms and hands. Harry suspected that quite a lot of blood had gotten onto his robes too, only that he hadn't been able to see the stains since his robes were scarlet to begin with.

At least he's all right. Harry leaned onto the cushions, entwining his fingers behind his head and resting back against the palms of his hands. He'll be fine. At least until he gets out of here.

Harry knew that Ron and Hermione would probably be outside waiting for him, but for some reason he didn't feel like seeing them right now, or the rest of his team for that matter. Spirals of confusion encircled the dazed, fragmented thoughts in his head as he replayed the Quidditch match over again in his head, for the millionth time...

Draco almost catching the Snitch. Draco getting hit by the Bludger. Draco flying as if his mind was miles away, his movements slurred by such mechanical hesitance. And finally, Draco falling, and that terrible echo of solid silence as he hit the ground—

"Harry."

Harry snapped out of his sinister reverie, and he spun around, startled— and saw Hermione peering into the hospital wing, a look of frank worry on her face. She had opened the door so quietly that he hadn't noticed.

The tightness on Harry's features relaxed slightly, although tension still frayed the edges of his voice.

"Hi, Hermione," he said, shrugging off the memories of the Quidditch match until later.

"Are you all right?" was the first question out of her mouth.

"Yeah, I am," he said tiredly, offering her a small wan smile. "Pomfrey'll chase you off when she comes out of that room, but until then why don't you come in."

Hermione cautiously eyed the closed door, which led to the room where Draco was resting, before sliding into the waiting room and shutting the door behind her. She crossed over to sit next to Harry, and her shoulder brushed against his in a gesture of silent comfort. She said nothing for a few moments, but finally spoke up when Harry remained silent as well.

"How's Malfoy?" she asked quietly. Her voice shimmered with a reluctant concern, although it was undoubtedly genuine.

"I don't know," Harry answered dully. "Madam Pomfrey says he'll live, so I reckon he will. But don't ask me what happened out there, because I haven't the faintest idea. Maybe Malfoy can enlighten us when he wakes up."

"You mean you don't..." Hermione started.

"No I don't." Harry said shortly. "I don't have a damn clue what happened out there just now, only that I was drenched in Draco's blood, and there was blood all over the place, and he wouldn't stop bleeding." He broke off, and shuddered. "It was horrible."

"Everyone thinks you two collided," Hermione said, a careful tone in her voice.

Harry sighed. "And what do you think, Herm?"

"I think there's more than what meets the eye," Hermione said neutrally, although a small shrug of her shoulders betrayed her perplexity. "I saw just what everyone else in the stands saw, Harry. But I know that little bit more about the— the situation with you and Malfoy, and that makes all the difference."

"So you think the ghastly potion has something to do with it, too." Harry's voice was still wooden.

Hermione sat back against the cushions of the sofa. "I've tried," she said simply. "I've tried to tell myself that we should take it at face value, that it was just an unfortunate collision, like everyone else thinks. Ron is downstairs having a quick word with the team— he's positively livid, he believes Malfoy tried to knock you off your broom in mid-flight. But... but I can't convince myself that's the truth. I just want to ask you first, what really happened."

Harry shook his head slowly. "I can't tell you."

Hermione bit her lip, and drew a sharp breath at the deeply shaken tone of Harry's voice.

"I can't tell you because I don't know either," Harry continued, staring down at his palms; he stretched his hands out in front of him and turned them over. "I don't know how it happened, and I don't know why. I don't remember colliding with Malfoy's broom, but then again I may be wrong. Maybe our broom tails brushed, and some freak aerodynamic phenomenon sent his broom careening. I don't know. But what I do know is that—" Harry's voice faltered slightly, "is that it didn't work."

Hermione's heart skipped a beat. "What didn't work?"

"The healing," Harry said, slumping backwards with a defeated sigh. "Do you remember what I told you, about Malfoy taking that damn knife and slicing a gash down his chest? And when he took my hand and pressed it to his wound, it healed. Well, I tried that just now, on the pitch, when he was bleeding so badly I thought he'd just bleed to death if I didn't do anything. But it didn't work. Nothing happened. Nothing at all."

"And what does that mean?" asked Hermione slowly.

"That's a really good question," Harry answered softly.

The atmosphere in the Gryffindor common room that evening was mixed— the official word from Madam Hooch had been issued during dinner, and it was decreed that the Slytherin-Gryffindor match earlier in the day would be counted abandoned due to the loss of both teams' Seekers (which would, theoretically, have meant the match would continue forever if not halted). The re-match would be scheduled for a later date, to be subsequently announced.

The Slytherins, of course, had been highly pleased by this; the Gryffindors, however, were not, since they had been leading by a tidy margin before the accident. However, the Gryffindors all rallied nicely in support of Harry, and repeatedly told him that it wasn't his fault the match got cancelled in mid-game. Anyone taking a look at Harry's woebegone expression as he slumped in front of the fireplace would have understood why his teammates were trying their best to comfort him.

"It really wasn't your fault, that git Malfoy wrecked it all," Ron was saying for the umpteenth time, and Harry really wished that he'd stop saying that.

Seamus nodded in agreement. "Malfoy was just trying to get back at you for what happened earlier, when we almost unseated him with that Bludger— and it was obvious that you were about to catch the Snitch, and so he went for all or nothing and collided into you."

Hermione frowned. "You actually saw the collision, Seamus?"

Seamus turned to her quizzically. "What else do you think happened? They both decided to dismount in mid-air at the same time?"

"But it was Malfoy who fell off first, and—" Hermione started to argue, but Harry spoke up firmly, cutting her off.

"It was a collision, Herm." Harry shot her the briefest of meaningful glances, then continued, "I don't think either of us actually intended to crash, but we both did, and it's too bad, especially since Gryffindor was winning."

"But that's all right, Harry," Ron said confidently, giving Harry a bright smile. "We'll steamroller them all over again in the re-match. Look on the bright side— we'll get to kick their butts twice in the same season. And hopefully Malfoy will be too injured to play Quidditch for, oh I don't know, forever."

"Ron," Hermione said sharply, although she was still watching Harry carefully.

"Does anyone know what happened to Malfoy?" Harry asked casually, although Hermione saw the glint in his eye and noticed the swiftness of his question in response to Draco's name being mentioned.

"I heard he's in a coma," said Ron hopefully. "Weren't you in the hospital wing with him, Harry? You could've switched his medicine, or something."

"Yeah, especially with those Bogus Pills from Fred and George's Wizard Wheezes," Dean chimed in, chortling. "Malfoy won't exactly be Sleeping Beauty when he wakes up."

"Yes, and Madam Pomfrey will have such a hard time figuring out who to throttle for that," Harry answered dryly.

Hermione sat quietly and watched the boys animatedly dissect the day's game before it was stopped, as well as discuss strategy for the re-match. She noticed that Harry wasn't participating as much as he should be, which was odd, especially since they were brainstorming about his favourite topic. He looked distracted, and except for the occasional nod and short remark, he appeared as if his mind was a thousand miles away...

Or maybe not so far away— just down the corridor, first winding staircase on the right, two floors below. The hospital wing.

Hermione got to her feet and gathered her books without saying a word, making as little noise as possible. But Harry, perceptive and observant as he always was, noticed that she was leaving, and raised an eyebrow questioningly.

She shot him a significant look, and nodded once; he held her gaze for a few moments, and even if he didn't understand what she had meant, his eyes were still filled with unconditional trust. Trust that she knew what she was doing, and that even though he didn't know what she had in mind, he knew that she would do what was best.

Hermione was already halfway out of the portrait hole when Ron called after her, "Hey! Where are you going?"

"To the library," she tossed over her shoulder, "I need to check up on a book before closing time."

Without waiting for a response from them, she slipped through the portrait hole and was gone. Once outside, Hermione checked her watch— it was just after eight, and hopefully most of the students would be back in their common rooms by now. She walked along the torch-lit corridor, took a turn off down the first winding staircase on her right, and headed for the hospital wing.

Draco swung his legs over the side of the bed and stretched, wiggling his toes and staring at them as if they held all the secrets of the universe. The numbness in his body was almost gone, replaced by a vague, familiar sense of unease, like the tremors of an earthquake before it broke to the surface; dense, solid and extremely unsettling.

It had been barely ten hours since he'd arrived in the hospital wing and he was already bored out of his mind. A few of his Slytherin friends had come to see him earlier— Vincent and Gregory of course, as well as Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson, who had fawned and cooed over him as if he was an injured baby bird.

But all he could care about was that Harry had come in to see him.

Is he all right?

Harry's voice had been filled with such depth of genuine worry that Draco could almost have sworn that Harry did care about him, after all. Almost. But then he had walked out, and Draco hadn't seen him since. It was absurd, even expecting that Harry would come back to see him. Why would he do that?

Because he was Harry. If there was anything that Draco had learned in the past few weeks, besides the supreme torture of wanting to sink to his knees each time Harry walked by, it was that Harry possessed a certain nobility that was beyond anything that he had expected. Even though nobility was just a farce, a charitable shadow of love, it was still something special nonetheless. And some irrational part of him had spent the day hoping each time the door opened that Harry would walk in again, that Harry would come over and say something, anything at all, and make everything feel all right, just for that little while.

But Harry never did come back.

"Still got ten toes there, or only missing a couple?"

Draco looked up, and saw Hermione standing in the doorway, an inscrutable expression on her face. Either he had been so deep in Harry-thought that he hadn't heard her opening the door, or she had entered so silently that it was like some bizarre new form of Apparition.

"Aren't visiting hours over?" Draco said irritably; he set both his feet firmly on the floor, although he didn't get up.

"They are." Hermione walked over to stand at the foot of Draco's bed, and crossed her arms. "But I told Madam Pomfrey that I was just delivering you a message, so she said I could come through."

"A message?" Draco's heart leapt, and did a funny little ricochet within his ribcage; the gloom inside him changed into a glimmer of hopefulness. "From— from who?"

"No one," Hermione said nonchalantly. "I just needed a reason to get in here, that's all."

Much to Hermione's surprise, Draco actually looked crestfallen for the briefest of instants, before the disappointment quickly dissolved into indifference once again. But she had noticed it, all the same.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, somewhat grudgingly.

"Just spiffing," Draco replied, "it's invigorating to free-fall twenty feet off a broomstick every once in a while. Next time I'll just have to try a cliff."

"Nice theatrical show you put up today," Hermione remarked crisply. "Very sensational and all. So, what really happened?"

Draco snorted. "Theatrical, Granger? If I'd wanted theatrical, I'd have streaked naked through the Great Hall, or go-go danced on the Potions classroom tabletop. I would have made Longbottom turn into a pink flamingo and dance the flamenco. I would not, however, have kamikaze-crashed my broom and almost killed myself in the process."

"Pity about the 'almost' bit." Hermione's mouth quirked in a suppressed smile. "And you do have a thing about dancing, don't you?"

"I hate dancing." Draco made a face. "Everyone knows that."

"Well, it figures." Hermione paused. "Anyway, you still haven't answered my question— what exactly happened up there? What did you do?"

"Did you have your face buried in a book during the match, Granger?" Draco shot Hermione a look that was pointed enough to carve ice with. "I fell off my broom and almost broke my neck, haemorrhaged from multiple injuries, and then mercifully passed out. But I heard that Potter came cluttering down as well, so I'm sure he's furnished you with a frame-by-frame account of the gory details."

"Everyone thinks you and Harry collided in mid-air," Hermione fixed Draco with a level gaze. "Was that what happened?"

"What does Harry say?" Draco asked immediately.

Hermione sighed. "He's not sure. He doesn't remember a collision. He reckons the tails of both your brooms could've entangled, and it was just a freak accident. Although," she added, "there are a fair few of the mind that you deliberately zoomed into Harry so the match would be halted and re-played at a later date."

Draco let out a scornful laugh. "Since when, Granger, do you know me as such a self-sacrificing person?"

"I do know that you'd do anything for glory," Hermione replied, without a trace of a smile, "and that beating Harry at Quidditch is something you've wanted for a long time."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "So you think I crashed into Harry on purpose, too."

"No," said Hermione diplomatically, "I don't think that. I know what I saw, Malfoy, and I also know that what happened goes deeper than just a case of bad timing. And I want to hear how it happened straight from you, and more importantly, why it happened."

"Why it happened?" Draco gave a bitter, humourless smile. "Isn't it fairly obvious, or did you take a Bludger to your head?"

"I know it has something to do with the love potion," Hermione said impatiently, "but as far as I know love potions don't bring on bouts of sudden unconsciousness, or induce mid-air collisions."

"You don't know anything, Granger." Draco replied calmly, his grey eyes hard and filled with tense emotion like shimmering pearl. "I can tell you the first thing to know about love potions, and it's that they impair judgement. In every aspect of your life, every time a certain someone is around."

"I know that—" Hermione began, but he cut her off.

"When I see him, it feels like everything around me shatters and heals in a single moment, and when I look at him the background just fades to a shifting blur." Draco spoke in a colourless monotone, as if speaking about a distant life far removed from his own; the words seemed to tumble from his lips out of their own volition, like a repressed tide rushing up to shore.

Draco didn't know why he was confiding this in Hermione Granger, but he knew that if he didn't tell someone, he might just explode. "Do you know how much time I've spent watching him, over these past couple of weeks? Let me just tell you, a lot. I don't think I'm exaggerating if I say that in some ways, I know Harry better than any of you do. For instance, which hand does Harry use to push his hair out of his eyes?"

"Um," Hermione said uncertainly, looking thrown, "his left?"

"Always his right. And do you know that he likes to walk with his hands in his pockets, unless he's carrying books, in which case he always carries them on his left hand because his right is his wand hand? Do you know what is always the first thing he takes out of his bag when he sits down at his table in class?"

"His parchment?" Hermione suggested, realising that she hadn't a clue. "Or his quill?"

"No. His bottle of black ink." Draco gave her a serene, mildly smug smile. "Isn't it surprising how much you actually don't know about someone you thought you knew so well?"

Hermione, for once, couldn't think of anything to say in reply to that.

"Well," Draco continued in a low, measured voice, "I guess I've been noticing so much about how Harry behaves because the potion makes me particularly sensitive to his feelings, and his reactions to me. I'd be able to tell when Harry's looking in my direction, without even glancing up. And this— this destructive connection, it doesn't get better with time, you know. It only gets worse. Which was why— during the match..." he trailed off.

"What?" Hermione sounded almost breathless. "What do you mean?"

Draco bit his lip, and looked away. "The whole atmosphere this morning was more tense than usual— emotions were heightened by the excitement of the Quidditch match. I could plainly tell when Harry was angry, and his rage disrupted the precarious balance of the entire dynamic between us. It was—" he broke off, casting for words, "it was like drowning, where all you see when your head breaks the water surface is a crimson sky, and all you see when you're dunked under is a sea of blackness. I guess it was more than I could take, at that very instant, and I blacked out."

Hermione was staring at him, open-mouthed. "Harry made you fall? Why— why was he mad at you in the first place?"

"Because I almost caught the Snitch," Draco said, without missing a beat. "I wasn't the only fiercely competitive Seeker on the pitch today, you know. Especially since Harry has never known the opposite of victory. He was playing to win, love potion or not."

"Harry couldn't have been that angry at you," Hermione protested, albeit weakly. "He was watching out for you, throughout the game— he was genuinely very worried that with the complications of the love potion, you wouldn't be able to last the entire match."

"And right he was," Draco said, cynicism lining his voice. "Believe me, Granger, he was angry at me. He was positively furious. I could feel it— perhaps too much— and I couldn't repel it or handle so much raw emotion all at once, and that's why I passed out."

Draco sat back on the bed, leaning against the headboard as he stared off in the distance, immersing himself in the torrid recollection of that moment which splintered and burned like nothing he had ever experienced before. It had been a wave of crashing scarlet, pure red without the slightest shadow of black or dilution of white— the colour of anger, the colour of pain, the colour of passion, the colour of love.

Love, which was a summation of all these, and everything more.

Draco forced himself to stop dwelling on the scorching memories; he looked back at Hermione. "So, now you know why."

"Harry hasn't got the faintest idea of this, you know," Hermione said, a grave frown knitting her eyebrows.

Draco gave a wry shrug. "Sometimes it's easy not to notice other people's feelings."

"Harry's not like that," Hermione insisted, automatically leaping to her friend's defence.

Draco held her gaze unflinchingly. "I know."

They sat quietly for a few long moments, sharing a troubled silence. Finally, Hermione spoke up.

"What are we going to do now?" She sounded anxious and unhappy.

"Maybe there's nothing left to do," Draco said softly, and the unspoken tone of defeat in his voice was overwhelming. He raised his eyes to Hermione's. "So, did Harry ask you to come here?"

Hermione shook her head. "No. I wanted to come and talk to you myself. Harry— well, he's still rather shaken up by the whole thing, and I thought it'd be best to leave him be for a while before thinking of what to do next."

Draco looked away, letting his gaze fall on the white floor tiles, so clinically clean and well scrubbed. "He came in to see me today."

Hermione didn't seem surprised. "He's been worried about you. He's been worried if you'll be all right, and he—" she was about to tell Draco about the failed healing attempt on the pitch, but decided against it at the very last moment, "he was the first person by your side right after you fell off your broom. And right now he's so confused about what happened up there— he doesn't know why or how, and he definitely hasn't a clue that he was the cause of it."

"Are you going to tell him?" Draco asked, a flicker of obscure light sparking in his eyes at the mention of Harry's name once again.

"Do you want me to?"

"I don't know." Draco said offhandedly, although tension was evident in the tightness of his shrug. "It's up to you."

"Don't give me that!" Hermione looked annoyed, and gave Draco a stern look. "You jolly well make up your mind if you want me to tell Harry or not. You aren't going to shirk that decision onto me."

"Do you think that he'd be better off knowing?"

Hermione considered for a moment. "I don't know," she finally said truthfully.

"Then do what you think is best."

Draco leaned over and poured himself a glass of water from the jug by his bedside, then took a sip. He stared into the water, as the rays of amber light glanced off the liquid colourlessness of it, catching spectrums of rainbow as they were dispersed through the pure transparency of water and glass. He swirled the water listlessly, creating a miniature whirlpool in his glass, which immediately dissolved when he stopped the movement.

"We are so damn trusting nowadays," Draco said aloud, talking down to his drink. "We just take everything for granted, and don't even think twice about how one small twist in events can alter our entire lives. I don't mean that we don't care about what happens to us— I mean that we assume too much to care enough. Take this glass of water, for instance," he raised the glass in his hand, as if offering a toast, "I'll just drink it when I'm thirsty. I'd never even think to suspect that it could be poisoned, and that this might be the last sip of anything I ever take."

Hermione gave Draco a quizzical look. "And why would the water be poisoned? Because Madam Pomfrey thinks a nil fatality rate among her patients doesn't look good on her record?"

"Don't be obtuse, Granger, it's just an analogy." Draco gave her a withering look, then went back to gazing morosely down at his glass of suspect water, from which he took another sip. "Anyway, even if it's drugged, it can't be any worse than the state I'm already in— the love potion is magical poison, running in every drop of my blood. And it won't kill me," he let out a short bitter laugh, "at least not yet. And definitely not quickly."

"There must be a way to counteract the love potion," said Hermione stoutly, determination in her voice, "even if a direct counterspell doesn't exist, there must be a loophole somehow."

"Loophole?" Draco eyed her incredulously. "What do you think this is, Hermione? A rule that we're trying to evade? Love plays by no rules, and this isn't a game to start off with. It's a mistake, and some mistakes can never, ever be rectified."

"So you're just going to live with it?" Hermione goggled at him in disbelief. "You're just going to accept this as a mistake, as if that's going to help anything now? What about Harry?"

"Harry, for your information, isn't the one who's going to lose his sanity under the prolonged influence of the love potion," Draco said through gritted teeth. "Harry, incidentally, can actually just get on with his life, bearing no scars of the potion, and he can just walk away and go back to being normal."

"No, he can't," Hermione said hotly, glaring at Draco. "If you think that you're the only one affected by the love potion, you're wrong. Ever since you showed him the seriousness of the potion by cutting yourself and having him heal you, he's been worried about this whole mess like you would never imagine. He's hiding things from Ron just to protect this horrid secret. He's cutting class and sneaking around just to talk to you. And I've never seen him play so badly at Quidditch in all his seven years. So stop behaving like you're some martyred saint, and use your time more productively to think of a solution to this, because I know there's a way out somehow."

"You know, you sound like bloody Mathilda Miggs, the Mad Muggle's Mum." Draco sounded mildly disgusted. "Just listen to yourself: 'I know there's a way out somehow!' Please, spare me the bright-eyed idealism."

"Oh stop being such a prat, will you?" Hermione snapped.

"Look," Draco slumped backwards onto his pillow. "I think 'I've had a rough day' is a huge understatement. So maybe I'll go with 'It's the concussion talking'. Either way, I'm not in the most optimistic of moods right now, and this conversation isn't making me feel much better."

Draco closed his eyes, and for an odd instant Hermione was struck with how vulnerable and fragile he looked, framed with an air of tired innocence.

"I've been wondering," she said slowly, "if a Memory Charm might work. To make you forget that you're under the influence of the potion altogether, and perhaps even wipe out the whole memory of drinking the potion in the first place."

Draco shook his head. "Won't work. Memory Charms are inferior in power to the Imperius Curse, and even Imperius doesn't work at all while the love potion is in effect. You see—"he took a deep breath, and there was a quaver in his voice, "Memory Charms and Imperius, they mess with your mind. Love potions mess with your heart."

Hermione looked at Draco, and for the first time in her life saw the sheer helplessness and confusion in his eyes, brutally truthful; and she saw that beneath the veneer of arrogance and apathy, he was actually scared, because he had no idea what to do next. Lack of control in a situation was apparently not something he'd been taught to handle, not in the Malfoy household.

She heaved a deep sigh. "You really should get some rest." She turned to leave.

"I need to talk to Harry." Draco said, his voice sounding more than a little constricted.

Hermione glanced back. "When?" was all she said, and Draco was surprised; he'd half-expected her to ask what he wanted to talk to Harry about.

"As soon as possible. Tomorrow night, nine o'clock. Same place, he knows where."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Yes, storage room on the fifth floor, Astronomy Tower." She paused. "You sure know how to pick a place to meet— you do know what most people who frequent the Astronomy Tower at night actually go there for, don't you?"

Draco managed a grin. "Yeah, the point being that they'll all be too busy to notice us sneaking around."

Hermione harrumphed. "As long as you two don't get influenced by the snog-happy couples there."

Draco gave a hollow laugh. "Don't worry, Harry will make sure we stick to the agenda." He watched as Hermione reached for the doorknob, and then added softly, "Thanks for coming."

Hermione stopped and gave him a sidelong look. "I'll tell Harry you said hi."

"Just tell him to be there tomorrow night."

"So did you manage to talk to Malfoy last night?" was Harry's greeting to Hermione the next morning, as they left the common room to go to breakfast in the Great Hall.

"Yes," Hermione replied succinctly, but said nothing more. In truth, she wasn't sure what else she wanted to tell Harry about their conversation.

"And?" Harry pressed impatiently. "What did he say?"

"He says that he wants to meet you tonight, in the storage room on the fifth floor." Hermione glanced furtively around to make sure Ron wasn't listening in; Ron was a short distance away, asking Seamus about the other houses' match fixtures and hypothesising the likely table standings.

"Tonight?" Harry frowned. "Whatever for? What does he want to talk about?"

"I don't know," Hermione answered honestly, "he didn't say. But he seemed like he really wanted to talk to you."

"Did he know what happened up there yesterday?" Harry persisted. "Why he fell? Why I couldn't heal him?"

"I didn't tell him about your trying to heal him, he seemed troubled enough as it was." Hermione shot Harry a sideways look. "What about yesterday night— what you said in the common room? Did you suddenly remember that it had been a collision after all, or was it so that Ron and the rest wouldn't suspect otherwise?"

"They all think we collided, and I think it's the best version for us to stick to," Harry answered slowly. "So what did Malfoy say?"

"Malfoy reckons he'll be discharged from the hospital wing today, and so—" Hermione started, before Harry gently touched her shoulder and pulled her aside, slowing their pace.

"Hey," he looked straight at her, and his eyes were filled with earnest anxiety. "Look Herm, you're avoiding my question, and I can see that. Is there something that I should know about what happened up there yesterday? Please, Herm, tell me what he said."

Hermione bit her lip. "It's kind of hard to say, Harry."

Harry's expression hazed over with concern and unhappiness. "Did Malfoy ask you not to tell me?"

"No," Hermione said, her dilemma showing on her face. "It's just that— oh, Harry, it's you."

"It's me?" Harry blinked. "What...?"

"You, Harry," said Hermione gravely, "You happened yesterday. Malfoy fell because of you, and he's fallen for you, and..." she trailed off, and sighed heavily.

Harry was staring at her, looking thunderstruck. "He fell... because of me? So," he looked utterly confused, "what does that mean? That we actually did collide?"

"No," Hermione said, sounding agitated. "He says that you were mad at him, because he almost got to the Snitch earlier, and your anger was somehow magnified by the effect of the love potion. He could actually feel your anger inside his head, Harry, and it got too much for him to take and he blacked out and fell off his broom."

Harry was silent for a long moment; Hermione eyed him worriedly. "Look, Harry, it isn't your fault, what happened..."

They reached the Great Hall, and had to stop talking for a moment while they found their places and entertained several random interruptions from a few of their classmates. Harry slid into the seat next to Hermione, and sat silently as the food was served on the tables.

Hermione felt terrible seeing Harry so upset— she almost regretted telling him, although she knew that Harry deserved to know the whole truth since he was more intimately involved than even she was. But she had hesitated to tell him for this exact reason, because she knew that he would feel guilty, and blame himself for what happened to Draco.

It was decidedly inconvenient that they were at breakfast now, since she couldn't even have a proper talk with Harry. Glancing at Harry again, she caught him looking across the room, and she felt a dull flutter inside her stomach as she saw where he was staring: at Draco's empty seat at the Slytherins' table.

"Harry," she started to say, trying to think of something in comfort, but he curtly shook his head once, and signalled for her not to discuss it at the table.

Unhappy about the glum start to the morning, Hermione started buttering her piece of toast. Nibbling on her bread, she thought about what Draco had said to her last night— his words had a weighty, sinister echo to them, words like poison and blood, and mistakes that couldn't be rectified. But she still held to her belief that they would find a way out. Somehow.

And suddenly, as she raised her glass of pumpkin juice to her lips, the idea struck her out of the blue, as she stared at the silver serpent insignia emblazoned on the green banner hanging above the Slytherin table—

Snakebites.

Poison.

In the blood.

Antivenin.

"Oh my god!" she exclaimed, jumping to her feet in a rush. "I've got an idea!"

Everyone turned to stare at her; Harry also glanced up at her, bewildered.

Hermione grabbed her piece of toast and crammed it into her mouth, mumbled something of which only the word "library" was intelligible, and bolted out of the Great Hall.

Seamus turned to watch her go, amusement on his face. "Well, ladies and gentlemen, that was the updated version of the 'Eureka!' episode. Hell of a lot less scandalous, though."

Harry checked his watch for the third time in the past five minutes— it was quarter to nine, and he was sitting alone on his bed in the boys' dormitory. Ron and the others were in the common room, but he'd opted to stay upstairs for some peace and quiet. He knew that Hermione was in the library, where she'd spent most of her time in between classes during the day, researching on potions that worked the same way in which antivenins did on snakebite poison.

It was a brilliant idea, Harry acknowledged; trust Hermione to come up with a clever plan like that. Apparently something Draco had said the day before had made her think of the love potion in terms of poison in the blood, which meant that an Anti-toxin potion should be able to purge the essence of the love potion. It was marvellously simple, and definitely worth a shot— he was supposed to brief Draco on this new idea when they met tonight.

A thick dusty book entitled Medical Magic sat on his bed— Hermione had given it to him to read, so as to familiarise himself with the basic concept of her plan. Harry flipped the book open to the last few pages, where the index listings in order of subject were. He easily located the entry on 'Anti-toxin potion', turned to the numbered page and started reading:

Anti-toxin potions are used to detoxify the patient's blood, which has been contaminated by poison, toxic chemicals or other alien substances, which may be fatal or cause medical complications. The Anti-toxin acts indiscriminately on all types of chemical substances, either consumed orally or intravenously introduced; as a result, all drugs will have to be subsequently re-administered once the Anti-toxin potion has been consumed. Most often used to nullify the effect of wrongly administered medication, the Anti-toxin potion works best on chemical substances immediately distinguishable in the bloodstream. The effect of the Anti-toxin potion is often discernable almost immediately, although it can take up to 24 hours to show results.


Harry stopped reading, and pondered for a moment. This Anti-toxin potion sounded like the perfect solution that they had been looking for. Of course, this book being a only a magical pharmaceutical reference, it didn't list the formula for the preparation of the Anti-toxin potion— that was what Hermione was hard at work in the library looking up.

Draco owes Herm big time, Harry thought to himself, as he checked the time again— it was ten to nine, and time for him to make his way downstairs.

As he draped his black school robes over the back of a chair so that they wouldn't be creased, something slipped out of his pocket and fluttered to the floor. Bending to pick it up, Harry realised that it was the note that Draco had written him less than a week ago. It was hard to believe it had been only such a short time. Since then and now, it seemed like forever had passed, as if every single moment between them had been taken out of the flow of time and stretched, filled to the brim with a chockfull of confusing, conflicting emotions.

Harry shook his head and tried to put the pervasive worries out of his mind— he slipped the note out of sight, and placed the book on his bedside table. Taking a deep calming breath, he exited the dormitory and made his way down the stairs, trying to appear as casual as he could. The other Gryffindors were sitting in the common room chatting and doing their homework, and Harry gave the excuse that he was going to see McGonagall about his Transfiguration term project before quickly ducking out of the common room.

His legs moved almost mechanically, remembering the solitary way to the storage room in Astronomy Tower even though he'd only been there once before. Some things were harder to forget, especially when his memories of that storage room were of knives and blood and rings and Draco.

He reached the storage room a minute before nine, and rapped on the door twice before cautiously opening it. As usual, Draco was already there, and this time he was sitting on the closed lid of a broad rosewood trunk parked at the far end of the storage room. Harry didn't remember seeing the trunk there before— maybe Filch had just brought it here, which wasn't a good thing since that meant this storage room wasn't as disused as they'd thought it was.

Harry quietly closed the door behind him, and walked a few steps closer to where Draco was sitting. Draco watched him evenly, not taking his eyes off him; Harry finally drew to a halt a few feet away from Draco. He opened his mouth, then realised that he didn't know what he wanted to say.

Draco finally spoke first. "How's your ankle?"

Harry blinked. "How'd you know...?"

"I heard," Draco answered offhandedly, slowly rising to his feet. He took one single step closer to Harry, never once breaking eye contact. "Quite a match it was yesterday, wasn't it."

"You're fine now?" Harry asked, his voice edged with concern.

His eyes flickered over Draco's body— the other boy was dressed simply in jeans and the Slytherin house T-shirt, which had the single Chinese character for 'snake' embossed across the front in bold, black calligraphy strokes. The exposed parts of Draco's arms bore almost no trace of his injuries sustained the day before, except for pale, light-pinkish hue of freshly healed skin; Harry glanced up at Draco's forehead, where a faint silver streak, like a trail of mercury, marked where Harry had tried to heal him, but had failed.

Draco looked at Harry, remarkably calm. "Do I look fine to you?"

"Um," Harry cast about for words, "well, you seem all right, I mean, your body looks good— wait, I didn't mean it that way— as in, you seem better, physically." He paused. "I don't know about how you feel otherwise."

Draco tilted his head slightly. "Did Hermione tell you anything?"

Harry bit his lip, and nodded silently.

An obscure emotion flitted across Draco's face for a split-second, and he looked away. "So you know."

Harry nodded.

"Everything?" Draco asked tentatively, and there was a faint quiver in his voice. "About what— why it happened?"

"Yes," Harry said softly. "She told me."

A silence ensued— it wasn't an awkward or embarrassed silence, but a pensive one, borne on unspoken waves of helpless sadness. It was about the most intimate moment of non-physical contact that they'd ever shared— they were standing merely inches apart, and one step forward by either of them would swallow up the distance that lay between. But neither of them moved.

"Listen," Harry finally said, with a heavy sigh. "Hermione thinks she knows how we can fix this— it's a pretty good idea, and maybe—"

Draco suddenly let out a soft gasp and clutched his jeans. "Damn, my wand's vibrating."

Harry took a step back, and gave Draco an alarmed look. "I really hope you're talking about your literal wand..."

"There's someone coming!" Draco hissed, and swore creatively; he spun around and eyed the door behind them. "I think it's Filch. Dammit, we have to hide!"

Harry stared at the closed door, bewildered. "I don't hear anything."

Draco was looking wildly around the small room— he quickly strode over to the rosewood trunk and threw open the lid, revealing a fairly narrow hollow compartment within. His eyes lit up, and he turned to Harry. "Come on, we can hide in here."

Harry eyed the trunk sceptically— he hated enclosed spaces because they brought back unpleasant childhood memories, and this rectangular trunk reminded him far too much of a coffin, for him to be comfortable climbing into it.

"What is the matter with you, Malfoy?" Harry frowned. "I can't hear any footsteps, I think it's just people walking about upstairs."

"No," Draco said urgently, "someone is about to walk in that door and if we don't get out of sight now, we're in big trouble. Trust me, will you?"

Trust me. For some reason, those two simple words struck a chord within Harry, because they articulated something he had already been doing all this while— trusting Draco. Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

"Oh, all right," Harry said reluctantly, crossing over to where Draco was standing by the open trunk.

Draco looked relieved. "Okay, hurry up and get in. Now."

"Are you crazy?" Harry turned to Draco incredulously. "And let you get in on top of me? No way."

"Oh, fine!" Draco snapped, exasperated. "I'll get in first, then."

He quickly stepped into the trunk and sat down, stretching his legs out; he lay backwards, such that he was flat on the base. The interior of the trunk was more spacious that it looked, since Draco seemed to be able to fit inside without any difficulty.

"What are you waiting for!" Draco hissed, glaring up at Harry. "Come on in! Someone's going to come in any moment now!"

Harry muttered something under his breath that sounded like "This had better be good, Malfoy, or else", gingerly stepped into the trunk, and carefully lowered himself on top of Draco. Their bodies were perfectly aligned, from shoulders to ankles— once Harry had settled himself inside the trunk, Draco reached up and pulled the lid closed over them. It slammed shut with a soft thud, engulfing them in darkness.

Harry blinked, his eyes trying to adjust to the pitch-blackness inside the trunk— he wasn't even sure if his eyes were open or closed, it was so dark that it made no difference. He braced his hands and knees on either side of Draco so that he wouldn't actually be lying on Draco's body— but after less than a minute his arms began to tire, and he finally allowed himself to rest his weight on top of Draco. He could feel the warmth of Draco's chest pressed against his, Draco's heartbeat drumming in counterpoint to his own.

The next thing they heard was the noisy creak of the doorknob being twisted, and the door opened, accompanied by familiar shuffling footsteps— unmistakably, Filch. He seemed to be huffing and panting, and there was the dull scrape of a sack being hauled over the floorboards. Filch's footsteps strayed dangerously near the trunk, and both Harry and Draco held their breath— but then the sound of his dragging feet grew distant again, terminating in the audible closing of the door.

"Is he gone?" Harry asked very quietly. It was too dark to see anything— he was vaguely aware that his chin was resting against Draco's left shoulder; he felt a few strands of hair tickling his nose.

"Wait," whispered Draco softly; from the direction of his voice, it seemed that his face was turned away from Harry's. "Just in case he comes back."

They waited in silence for a few more minutes— Harry could feel Draco's breathing quicken imperceptibly as they lay there, pressed close together, in the complete darkness. The lid of the trunk was bearing down on his back, and Harry shifted uncomfortably— this trunk was definitely not designed for two. Draco's knee was nudging against his calf, and Harry tried to adjust himself into a less compromising position, but failed for lack of room for leverage.

"I'm squashed," Harry complained irritably, fidgeting some more— his left leg was already going to sleep, and he realised that he had somehow managed to slip his right arm around Draco's waist. The fingers of his right hand were starting to feel cramped.

"Potter," Draco said through clenched teeth, "Will you please stop moving so much?" He sounded slightly breathless. "You're, um, creating... unnecessary... friction."

"What...? Oh!" Harry immediately froze in mid-movement, which was an even more uncomfortable position than before. "Oh! I'm sorry."

A few moments of absolute stillness passed; the silence was awkward and embarrassed.

"You can still breathe, you know," Draco finally said, in feeble jest.

"Huh? Oh, that's all right." Even Harry's voice was coloured with discomfiture. "I'm quite fine like this, it's okay."

Draco closed his eyes, and tried to immerse himself in the sheer darkness; anything to distract himself from how tantalisingly close Harry was, lying on top of him, and Harry's fidgeting just now had only served to rub him all the wrong ways, as it were. He could feel Harry's breath warm against his neck, blowing hot shivers down his spine— all he had to do was turn his head to face Harry, and they would be—

"Um, am I crushing you?" Harry asked; Draco shivered as he felt Harry's lips brush against his earlobe as he spoke.

"Yes, you are." Draco concentrated on stilling the involuntary quiver that ran through his entire body. Oh gods, this was more humiliating than he'd ever imagined— Harry could feel everything, every tremble and shiver of his body in response to their unbearably intimate proximity... it was mortifying.

Harry shifted slightly again, and something which felt like cool metal slid out from the front of his shirt and made contact with Draco's skin— from the compact denseness and metallic weight, Draco immediately knew what it was. It was a ring, brushing against his bare throat, dangling from a chain that was linked around Harry's neck.

Draco's heart skipped a few beats. Could it be...? Was Harry wearing his ring around his neck?

Resting on top of Draco, Harry was suddenly made very aware of something stiff nudging up against his thigh— something that pulsed rhythmically against him, and his eyes widened; he didn't even dare to wonder what it was, and he exhaled in a rush of breath, the involuntary words "Oh my god, Malfoy" leaving his lips in a shocked whisper...

"Relax, Potter. That really is my wand in my pocket," Draco informed him, and Harry could hear a secret smile in his voice. He felt Draco's fingers close lightly over his left wrist; there was surprising gentleness in this simple gesture, and Harry didn't even think to pull away.

"I put a Surveillance Spell on this storage room," Draco continued to explain, in a low voice. "When anyone comes within a certain distance around this room, it'll trigger off an alarm, which causes my— literal— wand to vibrate to warn us." Draco parted his legs a little, and Harry's knee slid against his inner thigh. "That's how I knew Filch was coming over just now— and he's still lurking close by, because the wand is still vibrating, but it's getting fainter. When it stops we can get out of here."

"Oh." Harry gave a relieved smile. "For a moment I thought—"

"No, Potter, it wasn't because you're lying on top of me."

"Right."

"You know something?" Draco said softly; he turned his face toward Harry, and felt the tips of their noses brush lightly— it sent a tingling sensation through him, fluttering through his nerves. His fingers reflexively tightened their hold on Harry's wrist; they were so close now, and he couldn't help it, he just couldn't—

Draco raised his head slightly and kissed Harry, letting his eyes fall closed as their lips met; and suddenly the swirling darkness felt like velvet perfection, and empty blackness became the colour of completion. His fingers released Harry's wrist, and moved to hold Harry's hand, their fingers entwining; everything else fell away like a collapsing dream, and all that mattered was what he had right now, what he held in his hand and what he tasted on the tip of his tongue, his mouth pressed against Harry's warm lips...

"Malfoy." Harry spoke Draco's name softly, his lips moving against Draco's; he didn't turn away, but he didn't kiss him back, either.

Draco forced himself to open his eyes; the bleakness of reality came streaming in once again, like black light in the glowing darkness. He let his head fall back against the base of the trunk, breaking the gentle kiss— he heard Harry say his name, but it wasn't the way he had imagined, those countless times in his dreams, where Harry had held him close and whispered his name: Draco.

"Malfoy, listen," Harry said again; his voice sounded odd, and strangely controlled. "Get a grip on yourself."

Draco felt his face flush with heat. "I didn't mean to."

"Never mind." Harry's voice was carefully veiled.

They lay in silence for what seemed like another eternity; Draco withdrew his hand, his trembling fingers disentangling themselves from Harry's.

Finally, when the vibration of his wand in his pocket had stilled, Draco spoke up, his voice still slightly shaky. "Okay, you can open the lid and get off me now."

They managed to push the lid of the trunk open and clumsily crawled out. Harry grimaced as he stretched his cramped muscles, then turned back to help Draco. He offered his hand, and Draco took it; they spent a few moments massaging their numbed limbs back to life, and Harry gave Draco a reproachful look.

"I'm never getting into a trunk with you again. I'm all stiff now."

"Oh, really?" Draco arched an eyebrow, and smothered a laugh. "My, Potter, I didn't know you cared that much."

Harry realised, turned red and looked extremely flustered. "I meant my arms and legs!"

Draco grinned as he smoothed back his tousled hair. "Whatever." His smile faded as he glanced warily toward the door again. "We'd better get out of here, it seems like Filch is on one of his rare visits up here tonight. I've been in this room dozens of times before and he hardly ever comes to dump stuff here at night. I've only ever almost bumped into him once, and that's why I always cast the Surveillance Spell now whenever I'm up here."

Harry looked impressed. "That Surveillance Spell is pretty neat."

Draco gave him a sideways look, mingled amusement and superiority. "Just one of those nifty Spells That Give You An Upper Hand. It's right up there with your little handcuff spell."

Harry blushed slightly, and couldn't think of anything in reply to that.

Draco took a few steps closer to him, and gave him an appraising once-over. "Your shirt's all messed up around the back." He reached over and deftly straightened out Harry's collar. "There." But he didn't move away.

Harry turned, and once again was face to face with Draco, standing far too close for comfort, yet it felt strangely right. Harry's expression sobered, and he gazed into Draco's eyes of stormy grey; they were the colour of a tempest building on the horizon, lined with troubled sadness overshadowing flickering hope.

"Listen, Malfoy, I'm—" Harry began, but Draco touched a finger to Harry's lips, silencing him.

"Don't." Draco's voice was twisted with anguish, and his eyes glistened with unshed emotion. "Don't say you're sorry, Potter."

"I wasn't going to." Harry said deliberately, his lips brushing against Draco's finger as he spoke. "I wanted to say that, I'm going to check how Hermione's plan is coming along. Then I'll let you know."

They shared an eternal gaze for the held breath of a moment— then Draco let his hand fall to his side, and he took a step back, the expression in his eyes shadowed and inscrutable.

"You go on first," he said quietly. "I'll wait a few minutes after you, just in case Filch is on patrol."

Harry nodded. "All right."

Draco said nothing more as Harry quietly opened the door, and slipped out into the corridor— instead he just lowered his eyes and looked away, until he heard the door click shut. Then he buried his face in his hands and sank to the floor, utterly exhausted— exhausted from wanting Harry, from forcing himself to do absolutely nothing about it, and from having once again failed to hold back from kissing Harry.

It was torture. Pure torture, and such fierce, helpless regret.

Don't. Don't say you're sorry, Potter.

Outside, Harry gently shut the door, but didn't take his hand off the doorknob; he leaned against the doorframe, shrouded by the hooded shadows woven with flickering torchlight.

"And I'm sorry, too." Harry whispered softly into the closed darkness.

10 Hanging By A Moment

Love means never having to say you're sorry.

Hermione slid into the seat beside Harry during breakfast the next morning, looking tired, yet jubilant.

"I think the Anti-toxin potion is the best bet we've got," she muttered quietly, loud enough for only Harry to hear, as she helped herself to a generous serving of baked beans. "Well, actually it's the only plan we have, but it's pretty promising, so that's something we can be pleased about."

"What's something we can be pleased about?" Ron interrupted, as he leaned over and caught the last part of Hermione's sentence.

"Uh..." Hermione bit her lip, thinking quickly; Harry swiftly covered for her.

"That I'm feeling well enough to join tomorrow's Quidditch training," Harry answered with a small, casual shrug. "My ankle's already had a couple of days to rest up — and I need to practice harder for the re-match, whenever that may be."

Ron brightened, then suddenly frowned and groaned. "Oh no, I have detention with Snape tomorrow evening! Damn, I won't be able to sit in for practice."

"Well, you wouldn't have gotten detention if you hadn't insinuated that Snape was colour blind," Hermione pointed out, rolling her eyes.

Ron looked unrepentant. "I only suggested that he get his eyes checked. I mean, as I told Snape, mauve isn't exactly a very subjective colour, you know. And my Toadstool Tonic was clearly mauve, but he kept insisting that it was a 'sickly shade of violet'."

Harry cracked a grin. "I'm sure Snape was really touched by your concern for his health." He mimicked Snape's low, venomous voice, his tone dripping with sarcasm: "'Yes, Weasley, mauve isn't a very subjective colour. But it's only my opinion that counts.'"

"That really wasn't worth the detention, you know," Hermione told Ron, with a shake of her head. "Honestly, it looked a bit more on the lilac side to me."

"Hey, thanks for the support, Herm," Ron said huffily. He turned to Harry. "But I was talking to the rest of the team while you were in the hospital wing — they're comfortable with the formation we're currently playing, so I guess it's fine if we just stick to that for the next match."

Hermione bowed out of the conversation as Harry and Ron started discussing Quidditch matters — she waited somewhat impatiently, since she urgently needed to talk to Harry about the Anti-toxin potion. And she vaguely wondered how Harry's meeting with Malfoy last night had gone; she'd been in the library until it closed, and Harry still hadn't returned by the time she went back to the Gryffindor common room.

The Quidditch talk finally ended with Harry asking Ron to see if Seamus could cajole Madam Hooch to schedule the Slytherin-Gryffindor match after their upcoming game with Hufflepuff, which was their next opponent on the original list of fixtures. Seamus was sitting at the other end of the table, so Ron took his toast and went off to talk to him.

"All right," Hermione said in a low voice, immediately after Ron departed. "So how'd it go last night? What did Malfoy think of the Anti-toxin idea? Does he reckon it's worth a shot?"

Harry furrowed his brow, racking his mind to recall what Draco had said in response to the Anti-toxin idea; then he realised that he hadn't actually gotten round to telling Draco anything about it in the first place. They had been distracted by... a lot of things.

"Uh," Harry looked sheepish, "I actually... haven't exactly told him about it, just yet."

"What?" Hermione looked at him in disbelief. "What do you mean, you haven't exactly told him? But you were with him for ages last night! What were you doing all that time?" A certain realisation dawned on her face, and she stared incredulously at Harry. "Don't tell me he started kissing you again!"

"No," Harry answered quickly, then considered. "Well, yes. Sort of. I don't know."

"And I was wondering if you were going to be vague about it," Hermione said dryly.

Harry tried to explain. "I mean, well, we were shut in a trunk together, and..."

"You were what?!" Hermione eyed him in amazement, then gave a resigned sigh "Wait… don't tell me. The trunk lid couldn't open, and you were stuck inside the trunk with Malfoy."

"No! The trunk lid opened perfectly fine." Harry's cheeks coloured slightly.

"Never mind, I'm not sure I want to hear about it." Hermione punctuated her words with a pointed look. "You know, both of you meeting up alone like that is starting to be a bad idea. It's really not very productive." She paused. "Counter-productive, even."

"Nothing happened!" Harry insisted earnestly. "Filch came up to the storage room unexpectedly — but Malfoy had this neat Surveillance Spell that warned us beforehand, and we had to hide inside a stuffy trunk so we wouldn't get caught."

Hermione gave Harry a searching sidelong look— Filch's unforeseen intrusion didn't exactly explain how Malfoy might have ended up kissing Harry, but she reckoned the convenient, enclosed trunk had something to do with it. At any rate, she wasn't sure she wanted all the intimate details.

"I'll have a word with him later today," Harry offered, trying to make amends for his apparent forgetfulness. "Tonight, maybe. After Quidditch practice."

Hermione shook her head. "Tonight might have to be when he actually takes the Anti-toxin potion."

"Tonight?" Harry blinked, looking surprised. "So soon? You mean you've already found out how to concoct it?"

Hermione's voice was underscored with urgency. "Here's the thing. I found this reference book, which had instructions on how to make the Anti-toxin potion. It turns out that it's really quite simple — only six different ingredients are needed, and they're all easily attainable from Snape."

Harry was listening intently. "That's good news."

"Yes," she continued, "I think I can even get them all this evening — I'm supposed to look for Snape after Care of Magical Creatures, to get a sample of a whole list of other ingredients that I need in the practical Potions assignment I'm doing for extra credit..." Hermione caught Harry's suppressed grin, and shot him a narrowed look. "Oh shut up, Harry, you're lucky I'm doing that project or you won't get the ingredients needed for the potion."

"Malfoy's lucky, not me," Harry interrupted. "He owes you big time, Herm — maybe you can get him to name a pavilion in Malfoy Mansion after you."

"Very funny, ha ha. I'll actually settle for him promising not to make fun of Ron anymore, but I even doubt that'll happen. Anyway — as I was saying, I could easily slip the ingredients for the Anti-toxin potion into the list I'm getting from Snape — those ingredients are commonly used in other potions, anyway, so he won't get suspicious." She paused. "But there's just one thing..."

Harry groaned. "I knew that was coming. But, what?"

"One of the ingredients, the sap of Veronia plant, is highly perishable once it's out of its special container," Hermione explained. "Its quality deteriorates swiftly after a few hours — and if used after the 'expiry time', so to speak, anything it's added to will promptly explode. So that means once I get the ingredients from Snape this evening, you have to make the potion as soon as possible — by tonight, not any later."

"Okay," Harry said slowly, trying to process all this new information in his mind. "So that means we'll just have to tell Malfoy to meet again tonight, then quickly fill him in on the Anti-toxin idea as we make the potion, since I won't be able to talk to him any earlier, at least not in private."

"Not we," Hermione corrected. "You. I have to do my Potions practical tonight— I'm not collecting all those other ingredients just for fun, you know." She gave Harry another appraising sidelong glance. "Anyway, I don't fancy the prospect of having to watch Malfoy stare at you all night. It's rather unnerving."

"He does not stare at me," Harry protested.

"Oh yes he does. All the time." Hermione rolled her eyes. "Even Ron didn't stare at Fleur the way Malfoy stares at you."

"So... how does he stare at me?" Harry asked tentatively, his voice softening imperceptibly.

Hermione thought for a moment. "Whenever he looks at you, he gets this intense, deep emotion in his eyes, and it's so... so exclusive. It's as if he stops noticing everything else, the moment he notices you. And sometimes he'd close his eyes tightly, as if it hurts him a lot to look at you like that— but then he'd just open his eyes again, and keep on gazing at you the same way." Hermione allowed an indulgent smile. "It's kind of romantic, actually — well of course, except for the fact that he's Malfoy."

Harry managed a wry grin. "Excellent point there, Herm."

"Oh, and there's something else," said Hermione, as she reverted back to her focused, methodical frame of mind again. "The reference book in which I found the Anti-toxin instructions, it's rather... ancient. It was first published in the early sixteenth century, and although the copy in the library is a reprint, it hasn't been revised since then. So it might be a good idea to get a signed note, so we can check if the Restricted Section has more updated information on the Anti-toxin potion, which might work better; if not, we'll just go with what we have."

"Whom should we get the signed note from?" Harry wondered, mentally running through the list of teachers and immediately crossing out Snape and Trelawney. "Can Hagrid give us authorisation?"

"No," Hermione said ruefully, "only professors can sign for Restricted Section access — Hagrid can't, even though technically, he's a teacher too. And I can't ask Snape since I'm already collecting enough chemical substances to get me arrested at every Portkey station across the globe." She mulled over the matter for a moment. "You know what, I think you should ask Malfoy to get the note. This whole idea is to help him, anyway, and he should at the very least contribute something towards it."

Before Harry could reply, Ron came bounding back after his little conference with Seamus.

"Okay, it's settled," Ron said brightly, flashing Harry and Hermione a broad grin. "Seamus thinks it'll work out well for us too, since Slytherin will watch us play Hufflepuff before our re-match, and when they see us fielding the same formation as we did against them on Wednesday, they'll be fooled into thinking that's the strategy we'll use for the re-match, too!"

Harry raised an eyebrow questioningly. "And it's not?"

"Hmm." Ron pondered for a few seconds. "Or, they'll think that we're deliberately trying to trick them into thinking that we'll be using the same strategy for all our games, so they'll expect us to use a different game plan for the re-match, when we're actually not. As in, not using the same formation. But we actually are." He paused. "Am I making any sense here?"

"Nope," said Hermione, stifling a grin. She dusted bits of crumbs off her skirt, and got up from the table. "I'll leave you two to confuse each other into oblivion — I need to return a library book." She gave Harry a quick meaningful glance. "Lots of work to do — see you later!"

Ron waved Hermione off, then turned back to Harry. "So, what do you think of Slytherin's performance in the game, at least for the fifteen minutes or so before it was halted?"

Harry noticed that Ron was careful not to attribute the abandonment of the game to him; it wasn't characteristic of Ron to be so sensitive to others' feelings. Harry knew that Ron was just trying his best to be supportive and empathetic, and he was grateful for that.

"Well," Harry tried to formulate a decent opinion on Slytherin's game; he'd have been able to give more prompt response to what he thought of Draco's game, since he'd spent most of the match keeping an eye on him. "I guess their Keeper fouled a lot, which was why we got so many penalties."

"What did you think of their defensive formation?" Ron pressed. "I noticed that whenever our Chasers had the Quaffle, the Slytherin Chasers would flank them and hem them in so that the Slytherin Beaters could have a better aim. Could be potentially damaging to our forward attack, don't you think?"

"Um," Harry said, looking distracted; he'd just noticed Draco walking into the Great Hall, extremely late for breakfast. Harry vaguely wondered if Draco had stayed long in the storage room after he'd left last night — or could Filch have reappeared and caught him there? Draco might have spent the night being interrogated about what the hell he was doing, lurking in a supposedly disused storage room at that late hour. Harry sincerely hoped not.

"Are you feeling all right, Harry?" came Ron's voice, snatching Harry out of his wonderings.

"Hmm?" Harry turned to Ron. "Oh, yes, Slytherin's defence."

Ron looked at him with concern. "Are you sure you're okay, Harry?" he repeated, sounding genuinely worried. "You seem... rather out of it today. Are you feeling unwell, or anything?"

"No, no," Harry rushed to reassure him. "I just got a tiny spell of vertigo for a moment there — I'm fine now, don't worry about me."

"Vertigo? You want to go and lie down for a bit?" said Ron, his brow knitted in anxiety. "If you aren't feeling too good, you should take a rest — are you sure you're up for Quidditch practice tomorrow?"

"I told you, Ron," Harry said firmly, "I'm perfectly all right." He gave a slightly forced laugh. "Perhaps it's the thought of all the homework piling up that's making me dizzy. What with all this running around, Quidditch and everything — I've chalked up a huge backlog of stuff to do."

"You can steal Hermione's homework," Ron joked. "You can ransack her bag while she's away, nick her parchments and copy them up." He paused, and frowned. "She's been spending tons of time in the library recently, doing research on her essays and extra credit assignments and goodness-knows-what else. If she's not careful they'll charge her a portion of the library's overheads, since she's such a permanent feature there."

"She's been very busy, yes," Harry answered, in a noncommittal way. "But then again, haven't we all? I mean, in between Quidditch and homework and class and all the other stuff—" he was deliberately vague, "I think I've worked out a time deficit."

Ron appeared thoughtful for a moment, then leaned forward with an earnest expression on his face. "Look, Harry, I don't want you to get all stressed out because of what happened in that match. I mean, I can see you've been pretty troubled ever since Wednesday — I know you wanted to win, and I understand that falling off your broom isn't the greatest way to end a match. But you really shouldn't blame yourself or feel like you've let anyone down, because it's not your fault. It's all Malfoy's fault."

Harry sighed. "It was an accident, Ron."

"Or not!" Ron said hotly. "You know, Malfoy has this uncanny ability to mess up things and make you feel responsible for it, even though you aren't. Remember what happened with Buckbeak? Malfoy kicked up that huge fuss about being mortally injured, and Hagrid actually felt guilty about what happened, when we all knew that Malfoy was just acting. See what I mean?"

"Well..." Harry began.

"And I'm not going to let you give Malfoy the satisfaction of seeing you upset," Ron said seriously. "I know that you're probably still rather shaken, what with the collision and your fall and everything. And I want you to take things easy for a bit, so you don't end up overworking yourself and burning out. Okay, Harry?"

Harry managed a small smile, and touched Ron lightly on his arm. "Thanks, Ron."

Ron saw the tension on Harry's features easing slightly; he smiled back, and patted Harry warmly on the shoulder. "Anytime, mate."

After lunch, with ten minutes to go before the start of Care of Magical Creatures, Harry found himself lingering outside the staff room, debating on whether or not to enter. He rehearsed his story once more in his head so that he would sound nothing less than convincing, then took a deep breath and was about to knock the door — but before he did, it swung open and out walked Professor Lupin.

Harry looked startled. "Uh, hello, Professor Lupin — I was just looking for you, actually."

Lupin shifted the stack of books he was holding in his hands, and gave Harry a smile. "Well, perfect timing on my part, then," he said pleasantly. "So, is there anything I can help you with?"

"Well…" Harry put on his best casual tone. "I'm interested in doing some extra research, and I was wondering if you could sign a note for me so I can get some books from the library."

"Research?" Lupin looked interested. "Which topics are you looking at, specifically?"

Harry had his answer ready. "I was thinking of reading more about advanced behavioural-control Dark Arts." He'd actually lifted that phrase off a blurb on the jacket of one of Hermione's books.

Lupin looked thoughtful. "Some additional research into that branch of Dark Arts would certainly be useful for our current syllabus. I'm pleased to see you taking an active interest to gain more knowledge, there's never such a thing as knowing too much as far as defence against the Dark Arts is concerned." He nodded approvingly, and Harry's hopes soared. Lupin continued, "Which titles do you have in mind?"

"Umm," Harry stalled; the book Hermione wanted was actually about Anti-toxin potions, but he couldn't possibly tell Lupin that, because it would fall under the field of Potions and Lupin would likely direct him to Snape for authorisation.

So he tried, "Do you think you could give me an open note, instead?" That would give him access to any and all of the books in the Restricted Section — it was a long shot, but Harry crossed his fingers and fervently hoped that he appeared trustworthy enough for Lupin to grant it.

"An open note?" Lupin frowned slightly. "Well, Harry, for reasons obvious, open notes are very strictly supervised, and we teachers often need to justify giving them out. Usually we are told only to issue open notes to students researching compulsory term projects, and not voluntary assignments… but why don't you tell me exactly what you'd like to read up on, and why it sparks your interest so much? Maybe I can make an exception for you."

Harry gave Lupin's question some serious thought.

"I guess I'm fascinated by the way that certain forms of Dark magic can actually have such a profound, life-altering effect on its victim," he said honestly. "How terribly incisive it can be, such that it manipulates a person's thoughts and feelings and beliefs. Memory charms and the Imperius Curse, which warp your mind, and… and love potions, of course, which turn your heart upside down and inside out."

"Ah." A certain understanding dawned on Lupin's face, and he nodded shrewdly. "Does this by any chance have to do with Draco Malfoy?"

Harry's heart froze in mid-beat — he felt as if the Hogwarts Express had just run him over, knocking him completely breathless. He stared at Lupin, too shocked to speak. How the hell does he know…?

"Excuse me, Professor?" Harry finally managed to croak weakly, trying to salvage his air of casual nonchalance, and failing miserably.

"Draco Malfoy's essay," Lupin repeated, giving Harry a strange look. "I recall he mentioned the relation of Memory charms and love potions to the branch of Imperius magic, which was very well spotted on his part." He paused, eyeing Harry with concern. "Is there something wrong?"

Oh, thank god. Harry's knees almost gave way in relief; blood flooded through his veins once again, and his heart struggled back to its normal activity of beating. For one horrible moment there, he'd thought that his feelings had been that transparent, and Lupin had seen right through him… but it was only that Lupin recognised the reference to Draco's essay. Thank god.

"No, no, there's nothing wrong," Harry said quickly, albeit shakily. "I just, uh, felt a sneeze coming... but it's gone now."

"I'm afraid I can't accede to your request, Harry," Lupin said regretfully, with a firm shake of his head, sending Harry's roller coaster ride of emotions in the past few minutes in a plummet once more. "There is actually little more to be learned about the Imperius than what has already been covered in the textbooks — and as for Memory charms, we'll be studying them later this year, so perhaps you can write a research essay at that time. And access to information on love potions is strictly monitored by the Ministry, simply because of how surprisingly simple they are to concoct, given their nature as one of the deadliest, most potent form of the Dark Arts."

"Oh." Harry looked crestfallen; but Lupin interpreted his disappointment as resulting from a genuine thirst for learning that had been denied.

"I'm impressed at your zeal for this subject, Harry," Lupin looked pleased, although it was of little comfort as far as Harry was concerned. "How about this, instead — in a couple of weeks, we'll be having a lesson on how to fight hexes and curses in wizard's duels."

"That sounds very interesting, Professor," Harry said, without much enthusiasm.

"Yes, it certainly promises to be an eventful lesson, at the very least." Lupin's eyes twinkled. "I think you have pretty good wand sense, Harry — not only in speed and accuracy, but also in using the appropriate spell for the situation. Perhaps you'd like to write an essay on that instead, and hand it in to me in two weeks' time?"

Harry was in a bad mood as he made his way down to Hagrid's hut with Ron, for Care of Magical Creatures. He felt that his disgruntlement was more than justified — not only had he failed to get a note from Lupin, but he'd somehow also managed to land himself with having to write an essay due in two weeks. Defence Against the Dark Arts was easily the class he enjoyed most, but right now he simply had neither the time nor the inclination to work on an extra assignment.

"Can't get the note," Harry grumbled to Hermione, as he detached himself from Ron's side to stand next to her. They were both leaning against the fence outside Hagrid's hut, together with the rest of the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, who shared the class with them.

Hermione looked unhappy at the latest drawback, but appeared sympathetic. "Tried already, and couldn't get it?"

"Yeah," Harry said gloomily. "I thought that among the Professors, Lupin might've been the easiest to coax a note from, but even he wouldn't budge. Honestly, you'd think I was asking him to sign an authorisation to transfer a million Galleons into my Gringotts vault."

Hermione frowned. "Weren't you supposed to get Malfoy to ask for the note?"

Harry gave a little shrug. "I had some free time after lunch, so I thought I'd give it a shot asking Lupin."

Hermione made an exasperated noise. "You shouldn't have to do all the grunt work while Malfoy sits back and does nothing. I mean, if he's really so affected by the potion, you'll think he'd try and put a bit more effort into finding a way out of it."

"I don't think it's been easy for him, either," Harry said quietly, not looking at Hermione, and thus missing the slightly surprised glance that she cast in his direction. "It's not just the effect the potion is having on him — it's his own reaction to it that's most worrying. I've never seen anyone look so miserable as he did last night."

Harry stared out across the grassy meadow beyond the fence, where the glory of autumn had coaxed the red-gold leaves from their trees as the season began to wind down in its own unhurried time. The sky bore more than a slight threat of approaching rain, and Harry was glad that Gryffindor had booked the Quidditch pitch for tomorrow instead. It vaguely occurred to him that he hadn't seen the Slytherins out for practice in a while; to say that their captain was a bit off-form was the understatement of the year.

"Well, let's just forget about getting a signed note, for the time being," Hermione said practically, always the voice of reason. "It doesn't significantly alter the plan, anyway, so everything proceeds as we discussed earlier. I don't see a problem getting all the ingredients you need — so all you have to do tonight is mix them all together, mutter a few words and then dump everything down Malfoy's throat. And you're done."

Harry couldn't suppress a smile. Hermione was so endearingly methodical at times; although he personally had a strong feeling that what Draco wanted from him, in his mouth, really wasn't a gulp of Anti-toxin potion — as aptly demonstrated on occasions prior.

For Care of Magical Creatures today, they were once again looking at unicorns. Harry personally preferred these tame, exquisite creatures to the usual fare of vicious, often venom-spouting varieties that Hagrid liked to bring in. Presently most of the girls were gathered in loose clusters around each of the unicorns — five in all — while the boys stood back and watched from a distance. To Harry's surprise, he suddenly noticed Draco leading one of the smaller unicorns aside, a little distance away along the fence on the opposite side from where he and Hermione were.

Harry decided to take the opportunity to speak briefly with Draco; he nudged Hermione, and muttered out of the corner of his mouth, "Can you distract Ron for a bit? I need to tell Malfoy about meeting tonight — I'll only take a minute."

As Hermione moved over to where Ron was talking to Hagrid, Harry stealthily made his way across the field; he purposefully walked over to where Draco was, although he tried his best to look casual. No one paid him much attention, since everyone was preoccupied with the frolicking unicorns.

Draco glanced up as Harry came closer; there was an element of surprise in his eyes, although it was quickly overshadowed by a subdued resignation. He said nothing, but his gaze, calm like the stillness before a breaking storm, never left Harry.

Harry looked at the unicorn by Draco's side — although it was smaller than the rest, it commanded a certain quiet, matured dignity that made him look, and then look once more. It was a baby unicorn; it was cloaked with a coat of dark fur the colour of fresh charcoal, and streaked with hairs of lightning silver. On its forehead, beneath a shimmering, star-shaped mark, was a small horn — flawless like ivory, shimmering like a cone of twisted starlight.

The unicorn raised its head slightly and looked suspiciously at Harry, even as it nuzzled the side of its face against Draco's open palm. Harry was surprised how comfortable with Draco the unicorn seemed.

"I like your unicorn," Harry said, admiring the slender beast, with its silky silver mane; but he didn't touch it.

Draco tilted his head, a small smile curled the edges of his lips. "Is that a new pick-up line?"

Harry didn't know if he should laugh along, or get annoyed; this feeling of uncertainty within him was becoming ever more commonplace around Draco. The other boy simply gave him no reason to be sure about anything at all; these days, light seemed tainted, and darkness pure.

Harry decided to simply let it pass. "Something's come up — I need you to be at the storage room again, midnight."

"Tonight?" Draco quirked an eyebrow. "So, you enjoyed our little interlude more than you're letting on. A repeat performance, perhaps?" But there was no humour in his eyes, only a smothered flicker of pain.

Harry gave him a quelling look. "No. Hermione has a new idea, which might just about be the solution we're looking for."

"Solution?" Draco's voice sounded strange, as if taut with emotions twisted by a fine, delicate yet constant pressure. "Are we still looking for solutions now, or just escape?"

"Malfoy," Harry said clearly, with a firmness in his voice that he couldn't even quite believe in, himself. "Don't give up now."

Draco stepped away from the unicorn, and moved closer to Harry; the unicorn stamped its front hoof on the ground, and made a discontented noise. Draco ignored it; instead, he lifted his eyes to gaze evenly into Harry's.

"It's not about giving up," Draco said softly, his voice filled with a careful calmness that still failed to conceal the pain that ran deeper beneath it. "It's about giving in."

Harry closed his eyes, breaking the intensity that was mounting inexorably between them; but he could still see the troubled light in Draco's eyes, imprinted in silver behind his own closed lids. It had been almost heartbreaking to watch, and now even more so to feel — Harry suddenly felt alarmed, because this was what exactly what Hermione had warned him about, that he would be drawn into this whirlpool of tangled emotions as if they were his own. He couldn't let that happen.

He opened his eyes again, determined to hold to sanity and logic, for his own sake as well as Draco's.

"Trust me, will you?" Harry found himself saying; and random scenes flashed up in his mind, unbidden; white light glancing off the sharpened blade of dagger, coloured jewels set in a ring of polished silver, a glowing moment in a trunk filled with blackness.

The afternoon sunlight streamed through Draco's hair, turning it golden-white, and his pale features were bathed with a warm glow that almost touched a blush of colour to his pale cheeks; a crisp wind breezed past, but Draco didn't move to push the fringe out of his eyes. He just looked at Harry, his gaze questioning and understanding at once; then he finally spoke.

"Of course." Draco's words were perfectly measured. "I'll be there."

Harry nodded, and stepped back; he turned and walked away, making his way as inconspicuously as possible to the other fence where Ron and Hermione were.

"Hey!" said Ron, as Harry neared; he had a small frown on his face, and Harry knew that Ron had seen the direction he had come from. "What were you doing with Malfoy's unicorn?"

Hermione made a tremendous effort not to giggle; Harry gave her a brief glare, before he turned innocently to Ron. "Oh, I was just telling him off for monopolising it — I mean, it's not fair that he has one unicorn all to himself now, is it?"

Ron squinted into the distance, looking at the unicorn. Harry turned as well — and saw that Draco was now feeding it a sugared apple as he stroked its silver mane, his manner surprisingly gentle.

"Well, it's quite a runt, anyway," Ron decided, naturally biased to conclude that any magical creature that had even a vague fondness for Malfoy couldn't be very smart or likeable. "It isn't pretty and colourful like the other unicorns, either."

"It had a nice horn," Harry said, without thinking. Hermione choked back another guffaw.

Ron didn't notice. "Did it?" he asked idly, with a shrug. "Well, anyway — guess what Hagrid just told us? Norbert won a Fire-Breathing Contest! Charlie just owled and told him."

Hermione leaned back against the fence as Ron enthusiastically recounted what Hagrid had just told them; that little Norbert had triumphed in the contest because he had set fire to the tail of his closest competitor, forcing the injured dragon to withdraw. She could see that Harry was barely listening — instead, he was staring off into the distance, toward the fence on the opposite end of the field.

And Hermione had a feeling that it wasn't the unicorn Harry was looking at.

As darkness streamed through the shadowed corridors that snaked into the blackness ahead, Harry made a mental note never to undertake carrying four bottles of potion whilst trying to sneak around the castle after bedtime — especially when he couldn't use magic to balance the bottles, because of the potential risk of damage to their magical essences.

First, he'd almost dropped the bottle carrying the sap of Veronia plant as he crawled through the portrait hole; then he'd bumped into pillars at least thrice along the way, because he didn't have a hand to hold up a lit wand to illuminate his path. While trying to simultaneously balance the bottles of potions, negotiate his way around ill-placed pillars, and keep a lookout for Filch on the prowl, the storage room seemed miles away.

When he finally burst into the unlocked storage room, Draco was already there, as usual. Harry wondered what time Draco usually arrived — mere punctuality could just be out of decency, but being consistently early... that was something else altogether.

Harry dumped everything he was carrying onto the table, and heaved a huge sigh — he quickly checked his watch. It was just on the stroke of midnight — the proverbial moment of magical allure, where things changed in the whisk of a breath of time.

And for Draco's sake, Harry hoped that something would change, for the better.

Midnight also meant that the sap of Veronia plant, which Hermione had procured from Snape earlier in the evening, had already been out of its special container for almost five hours. Its quality was on the decline, and if they didn't hurry up, the effectiveness of the Anti-toxin potion would be greatly diminished — or worse, blow up in the faces when they tried to mix everything together.

Draco watched Harry curiously. "Let me guess. We're going to start our very own Potions franchise to compete with Snape, so we can make enough money to flee the country before my father finds out about this love potion fix."

"Very funny." Harry shot Draco a withering look. "Firstly, considering your skill in concocting potions, I wouldn't invest a Sickle in any Potions franchise you're a part of. And secondly, I am not going to flee the country with you, not under any circumstances whatsoever."

Draco scowled, but continued to watch as Harry began checking the labels on the bottles, referring to a crumpled list in his hand as he went along.

"Okay, now take off your robes," Harry instructed briskly, not looking up from the bottles of potions and other powdered ingredients he had stacked on the table; and as a result, he missed Draco's quizzical look.

Draco hesitated, eyeing Harry with no small measure of surprise. "What?" He didn't move.

"Take off your robes," Harry repeated, jerking his head toward an empty space cleared on the floor in the middle of the small storage room. "Spread them on the floor, then come over here. I'll take mine off and lay them out too, and then we can get down to work."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "This is Granger's brilliant idea?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry glanced up, not latching on to Draco's meaning. "This is a perfectly good idea, Malfoy. We should've done it long ago — immediately after you first took the potion, for instance. It would've had a better effect if we'd done this earlier, and I wish we had."

"Well, I did think of doing it before, but..." Draco still looked wary. "Are you sure about this, Harry? Shouldn't we— uh, talk about it first?"

"No time to talk," Harry said, with an impatient shake of his head, as he shrugged out of his robes and cast them to the floor. "We need to do it right here, right now. If we don't get it together soon, I think something is going to explode."

Draco looked alarmed. "Well, okay, if you say so. I mean, if you really want to." He undid the front of his robes, easing the velvet off his shoulders to reveal a thin, white nightshirt; he started to undo the buttons, then paused and looked over at Harry. "Do you want me to turn off the lights?"

"What?" Harry glanced up at Draco, nonplussed; then realisation finally dawned on his face. "Oh. Oh!"

"What's wrong?" Draco caught Harry's stricken expression, and he bit his lip. "Wait a minute. You didn't...?"

"NO!" Harry's recognition of Draco's intention was quickly chased by annoyance and embarrassment; he stalked over to where Draco was standing and slapped him hard on the arm. "Malfoy! That's not what I meant!"

Draco's cheeks coloured a flattering shade of crimson. "But you said—"

"I said take your robes off and put them over there, so we can have a space to concoct the potion without having to worry about spilling it on the floor!" Harry cut in, looking agitated and flustered, and he glared at Draco. "Definitely not what you were thinking! My god, Malfoy! Would I ever suggest that?"

"Hey, how was I supposed to know what you meant?" Draco sounded indignant and mortified at the same time, as he huffily began to button up his nightshirt again. "You always come up with these strange ideas, so I was just being cooperative."

"Ugh." Harry closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingers. He shook his head at Draco, still in disbelief; not so much by the fact that Draco had immediately leapt to that conclusion, but because he'd actually so readily agreed to it. "And you've actually thought of this before? Get your mind out of the gutter, Malfoy!"

"It's not my fault!" Draco actually looked hurt and chastised, as he smoothed out the front of his shirt. "You were unnecessarily ambiguous. I mean, we're alone together in here. You ask me to take off my robes. You start taking off yours."

And you get — that — from that?" Harry spluttered, turning red.

"Well, it could also be that you wanted to compare the size of—"

"MALFOY!"

"Our robes, I was meaning to say." Draco smirked. "Inseams and sleeve length, Potter — what were you thinking?"

Harry forced himself to take a deep breath to regain his composure. The ensuing conversation about shedding robes, comparing sizes and the general dose of misunderstood words had altogether succeeded in distracting him from the Anti-toxin potion.

"Okay, let's try this again," Harry said slowly, enunciating every word and giving Draco a stern look. "And please take everything I say from now on strictly at face value, and keep your mental gutter excursions to yourself."

Draco pouted again, but still went over to help Harry transport the ingredients from the table to the cleared space on the floor, where they'd laid out their robes. Draco felt inclined to tell Harry what two people usually did when they crawled onto a makeshift coverlet of robes spread on the floor... but then, he decided against it, given that Harry hadn't taken their little misunderstanding earlier very well at all.

"Are you going to tell me what potion you're making?" he asked, instead.

Harry glanced up. "It's an Anti-toxin potion," he explained. "Hermione thinks that since the potion is like poison in your blood, this might be able to neutralise its effect."

"So the love potion will just... disappear?" Draco asked, with a small frown. "The spell would be off, just like that?"

Harry shrugged. "I think so, that's the essential idea. All right," he said, sitting down cross-legged on the side laid with Draco's robes. "We have everything we need, and all we have to do is mix them together."

"Then what?" Draco asked blandly. "Am I supposed to drink it? Because that might be a bit of a problem, since I now have certain well-founded misgivings about drinking potions that are self-concocted."

"Well, it's different this time," Harry said, waving the sheet of paper in front of Draco. "Because we have a list of instructions, which are complete. Not missing entire chunks of would-be important instructions, like yours was."

"But mine worked, didn't it?" Draco said through clenched teeth.

Harry opened his mouth, but found that he had nothing to reply. He sighed, and wearily raised his eyes to Draco's. "Look, do you want to do this or not?"

Draco looked at him, the dim light of desperation reflecting in the silver of his eyes. Draco let his own gaze flicker from Harry's eyes, which were emerald glazed; down to Harry's lips, slightly parted as if asking a silent question; finally settling on Harry's neck, slender and collared by the plain neckline of his white tee-shirt.

With fluid grace Draco leaned over, supporting himself on the knuckles of one hand, the other reaching over to touch Harry's shoulder, gently; Harry looked startled by Draco's sudden closeness, and tensed slightly, although he didn't pull back. Draco let his hand slide along the blade of Harry's shoulder, coming to rest on his neck; deftly, his fingers dove briefly under the thin fabric of Harry's tee-shirt, and drew out the silver necklace that looped around Harry's throat.

At the end of it, hung Draco's silver ring.

Harry didn't move as Draco shifted even closer, and leaned in to undo the clasp of the necklace behind his neck. Now they were so close that their noses were almost touching; it was an intense revival of their intimate moment in the trunk, only last night.

Amethyst is supposed to heal, bringing protection and clarity of mind.

Draco's eyes never broke contact with Harry's, even as the necklace came undone, and Draco slipped the ring off the silver chain; he gripped the ring tightly in his hand for a moment, feeling its cool denseness, and the familiar grooves all along its outer surface, where the gemstones were studded in the band of silver.

Emerald repels evil, and—

"Wear this," Draco whispered softly, his lips inches away from Harry's ear.

He reached forward, and took Harry's right hand; for the second time he slid the ring onto Harry's fourth finger. The jewels sparkled crystal violet and clear green; the silver seemed to glow with a light that was entirely its own.

Harry nodded once, mutely; the air was charged with a unique energy, which sharpened the intensity of the moment to a fine point. Draco's hand still held on to his own, even after he'd slipped the ring in place; Harry could almost feel the delicate pulse under Draco's skin, and the contrary warmth of Draco's palm against his fingers. The moment halted in time, then rushed by on the wings of an exhaled breath, disappearing like spires of mist; Draco finally released Harry's hand, and moved back.

"Let's do it, then," he said quietly, and in his eyes Harry saw shining a light of new emotion — hopeful trust, mingled with the faint shadows of helpless defeat.

With an inexplicable surge of newfound determination, Harry picked up the list of instructions that Hermione had given him — from the looks of it, the Anti-toxin potion was among the simplest things they'd ever had to concoct. Hermione had already measured out the correct proportions of each of the ingredients, so all they had to do was mix everything together and... it would be ready.

Harry had brought along with him an empty glass; he carefully poured the entire contents in each of the bottles into the glass, making sure he didn't spill any of it. Draco simply sat opposite him and watched him work, his eyes not so much fixed on the potion as they were on Harry's movements. Harry hesitated a little as he tipped the sap of Veronia plant into the mixture; but there was no explosion.

Finally, all the liquids had been blended without any incident; holding up the glass, the potion was opaque and slightly effervescent, a pretty shade of cerulean blue. Draco eyed it with no small amount of cautiousness, but refrained from any comment.

Harry picked up a small container filled with what looked like shredded petals. "This is the last bit of the potion," he said, taking a deep breath; he looked at the list again, and read off the name. "Flowers from Sansevieria trifasciata — the snake plant. I'm supposed to sprinkle them into the potion as I say the spell, Discede toxicum. Then you have to toss back the whole glassful in one gulp. Okay?"

Draco seemed to draw himself together, steeling his resolve. "Ready when you are."

Harry nodded gravely, and with slightly trembling hands, unscrewed the lid of the container and emptied the shredded petals into the mixture.

"Discede toxicum," Harry said, enunciating every syllable, his voice quivering.

The potion immediately flamed bright crimson, like an inward burst of fire, before turning completely clear, shimmering like liquid crystal.

"All right," Harry sounded nervous and urgent, as he thrust the glass toward Draco. "Drink it, now."

If Draco had any fears, or misgivings, he didn't show it — he resolutely took the glass from Harry's hand, raised it in a brief, wordless toast, then drank the potion in one quick silent gulp.

Harry watched him anxiously, his brow knitted in anticipation; he took the empty glass from Draco's hand, and waited with bated breath. "How does it feel?"

Draco blinked a few times, trying to breathe evenly and gauge the effect the Anti-toxin potion was having on him — but it was impossible to distinguish this present flaming sensation from the dull grating ache he was almost starting to get used to. The fiery burning ebbed and flowed, rising and subsiding like the restless tide — and deep inside Draco feared it was still the same ocean bed that lay beneath it.

"So?" Harry's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Is it working?"

Draco closed his eyes and concentrated on inhaling deep, regular breaths. The heat choked up inside him, and then seemed to simmer and fade slightly, igniting a faint ray of hope; he waited expectantly, focusing his entire consciousness within, almost grasping desperately for a tangible feeling that the love potion was releasing its hold on him...

The burning feeling grew less and less, like the smouldering embers in a charred furnace, and his heart leapt in tentative exultation; he suddenly felt more normal, even marginally so, but that was enough to cling to, for the moment. Another spell of dizziness overcame him, and he swayed slightly, his hand reflexively darting out to catch himself, and he was vaguely aware of Harry reaching out to steady him as well. When his mental world stopped spinning, Draco opened his eyes as the blur around him slowly came into focus.

Harry was standing a foot away, his hand holding on to Draco's arm for support, a concerned expression on his face.

"Are you all right?" he inquired, sounding uneasy and hopeful at the same time. "Did it— did it work?"

"Yeah, it did." Draco answered shortly; he tilted his head slightly to see Harry's reaction.

Harry looked... relieved. The lines of tension smoothed from his face, and he seemed to relax considerably, breathing easier. He actually smiled when he saw Draco turn to look at him; not quite a warm or happy smile, but not a forced one either.

"That's good," was all Harry said, although the ease in his posture showed how nervous he had been before. "Do you feel... well, normal again?"

Draco still felt randomly whipped by glimmers of vertigo. "Define normal."

"Well," Harry considered for a moment. "I don't know — how did you usually feel, before the love potion?"

"I can't remember." Draco's tone was flat, his words brutally truthful.

"Normal, umm..." Harry tried again. "For one, you would be able to think straight, I guess, and you wouldn't like me anymore. Definitely not want to kiss me."

"In that case," Draco whispered, his voice sounding caught in breathless anguish, "No, it didn't."

He seized Harry, pulled him forward and kissed him hard.

Once more Draco caught Harry completely off-guard; nothing more than a startled 'oomph' escaped Harry's lips before Draco's mouth sealed over them. Harry took a step back, and promptly tripped over, falling onto the floor with Draco on top of him.

Draco's lips were soft, but his manner was hard; Draco held Harry down on the floor and kissed him thoroughly, his fingers raking through Harry's dark hair, holding the back of his head firmly. His grip on Harry's arms was tight enough to bruise, betraying the sheer pain he held inside of him, which bled to the surface as his fingernails dug deep into flesh. His nails would have drawn blood, if not for Harry's sleeves, which covered over the bare skin.

Harry turned his own face away from Draco, breaking their lip contact; Draco's body felt hot, almost feverish, lying on top of his own.

Draco pulled back, dazed, vaguely aware of Harry pushing him off, more distinctly grasping the reality of having just kissed Harry again, wrapping his thoughts around the sinking feeling that was starting up again in the pit of his stomach.

"I thought you said it worked." Harry's voice was even, his tone careful and measured.

"Well, evidently it didn't." Draco couldn't look straight at Harry; and he rolled off and sat up.

Harry gave Draco a pointed look. "Why'd you say it did, then?"

Draco's voice was dead, toneless, and utterly defeated. "Well, it certainly was a nice delusion while it lasted."

Harry sat up as well, pushing his glasses back into place and raking a hand through his unruly hair in utter frustration. "Dammit, this really sucks."

"Yeah," Draco said hollowly, "imagine how I feel."

Harry looked at Draco, and felt a pang of guilt. "Maybe it needs a while to take effect. I read in a research book that it can take up to twenty-four hours to show results — give it some time and I'm sure it'll work out fine."

"That's what they all say on their wedding night," Draco muttered crankily.

"You know, Malfoy, being negative really helps spruce up the gloom in this place." Harry sounded exasperated. "Can't you think of anything constructive to say?"

"Constructive?" Draco sounded sceptical, as if this was an entirely new concept. He paused, and thought for a moment; then he got to his feet, and turned back to Harry. "Okay. Let's dance, then."

Harry quirked a wry smile, in spite of himself. "Dance. You want to dance."

Draco shrugged. "It'll take our minds off things, for a while."

Harry hesitated. "I'm not sure this is such a good idea, Malfoy. I mean..."

"Do you have any better suggestions?" Draco cut in blandly. "We could play hide-and-seek, I suppose. There's our little trunk over there, which would come in rather handy — again."

"No, no, I don't want to do anything inside that trunk," Harry said hastily; he looked doubtfully at Draco again. "Are you serious? You actually want to dance here, right now?"

"No, I was thinking tomorrow during breakfast, in the Great Hall." Draco rolled his eyes. "Come on, unless you want to make a fool of yourself all over again at the Leaving Ball next year."

Draco extended his hand, his eyes looking down into Harry's with an unflinching look.

Harry dithered for another moment; then he finally sighed, and took Draco's proffered hand, allowing Draco to pull him to his feet.

"I cannot believe I'm doing this," Harry muttered. "I feel like I'm in a musical or something — when the going gets tough, they burst into song and start dancing themselves into an exhausted heap."

"That's rich, coming from you." Draco said archly. "Considering you're a hopeless dancer."

"I am not," Harry protested crossly.

"Yes, you are. I was there, I saw you dancing. And so did everyone else, since you had the brilliant misfortune of opening the Yule Ball." Draco looked smug, and held up one finger. "First lesson: the girl doesn't lead the dance. The boy does."

"Oh, shut up." Harry's cheeks coloured slightly. "It's not my fault that Parvati was much more enthusiastic about dancing than I was."

"Well, forgive her for wanting to dance at a ball," Draco said.

"Hey, easy for you to talk," Harry retorted. "You didn't have to dance in front of the entire school, all you had to do was strut around in your nice black velvet dress robes and look aloof."

Draco paused, and cocked his head to look at Harry. "You actually remember the colour of the robes I wore at the Yule Ball?"

Harry looked abashed. "Yes. But I mean, with you it's always black and silver, isn't it?"

Draco smiled. "Black and silver is the perfect combination — they blend on an elemental realm, but still manage to strike a vivid contrast."

Harry cracked a grin. "Did you get that off a fashion brochure for designer wizarding wear, or did you come up with that all by yourself?"

"No." Draco gave him a strange look. "It's what I really think. Black and silver belong together."

They bundled up the empty potion bottles and ingredient containers in the robes that they'd laid out, and pushed them aside, leaving a cleared space for them to dance. With the wave of his wand Draco dimmed the lights, so that the torches that he'd placed at the far ends of the room now glowed with a mellow, golden hue.

Draco turned and looked at Harry, his inscrutable gaze softened by the pale shadows and soft, flickering light. He stepped closer to Harry; in response, Harry didn't move back, just watched him with wide eyes, filled with innocence and anticipation.

Draco took Harry's left hand in his, and placed Harry's right hand on his own waist, never once breaking eye contact; then he took a small step forward, and they were so close, their faces barely inches apart. A shiver of tense excitement flowed between them like electric ice.

"I'll let you lead," Draco said softly, gazing calmly into Harry's eyes.

They were almost exactly the same height; Draco rested his left palm on Harry's shoulder, drawing them even closer together. He could feel the cool metal of his ring on Harry's finger, pressed against his other hand; Draco reflexively tightened his hold on Harry's hand, as if he could somehow capture the intangible moment that they now shared.

Harry was watching Draco carefully, and he saw the raw spectrum of feelings flash across Draco's face; frank pain and deep sorrow and desolate anger and helpless defeat, merging in a kaleidoscope of emotions, before disappearing like vapour and shadows.

"There's no music," Harry finally said, very softly.

"It doesn't matter." Draco whispered. He closed his eyes, savouring the incredible, unparalleled sensation of being pressed up against Harry; and it didn't matter if there was music or only silence, or if they were dancing on the dusty storage room floor or on a bed of nails and roses. Nothing else truly mattered, except that he was dancing with Harry.

Harry's arm tentatively tightened around Draco's waist, his hand resting lightly against the small of his back. Draco's eyes gazed into Harry's, untainted emeralds glowing with a perfect emotion; not apprehension, not awkwardness, not anything that could even be described except in the heart, and that was what made it so perfect.

And so, they danced.

Harry led the dance admirably well; after the initial few faltering, tentative steps, Harry found himself relaxing into a rhythm that fell in perfect step with Draco's, and then everything went smoothly from there. Draco swiftly adapted to his cadence, and their bodies moved in sync, close together as they swept in narrow circles, marking their tracks on the dusty floorboards.

Harry had never imagined, in his life, that he'd be dancing with Draco Malfoy, alone in a storage room on the fifth floor of the Astronomy Tower, at a quarter to one in the morning. And more than that, he'd never imagined it would feel so right.

As they danced, Draco admitted to himself that Harry wasn't a bad dancer at all — either his showing during the Yule Ball hadn't done justice to his talent, or he had greatly improved since then. Or, Draco wondered, was it because Harry was dancing with him?

Draco forced himself to separate his feelings from his thoughts, both of which were entangled in a shrouded daze that screamed out, You're dancing with Harry. And even more disturbingly, Just kiss him, just one more time. Draco bit his lip; if the Anti-toxin potion was taking effect, it sure was taking its time at it.

"Are you feeling any different?" Harry asked. "Is the potion working?"

Kiss him.

"I think so," Draco answered in a noncommittal way. "I can feel it churning around in my stomach — it could just be that it's dissolving my intestines, of course."

"Eurgh," Harry pulled a face. "I don't think so. Right now, do you feel better — less dizzy, perhaps?"

Kiss him.

"A little," Draco said, subconsciously pressing himself closer against Harry's body.

"More... in control?" Harry inquired.

Kiss him.

"Sort of," Draco said, wishing that he felt more convinced than he sounded.

"Anything else?" Harry asked.

Kiss him.

"Yes," Draco said, and he did just that.

Draco leaned forward and kissed Harry, not with the fierceness that characterised their earlier kiss, but this time, much more tenderly. He let go of Harry's hand, and both his arms slipped and linked around Harry's neck, drawing them both immeasurably closer, and Draco could even feel the quickened beats of Harry's heart, against his own chest. Vaguely he felt the heavy touch of Harry's hands resting on his waist; accidental or not, he didn't know, nor did he want to know. It didn't matter.

Draco's lips parted against Harry's mouth, which was warm and impassive at once; Harry was either too weary to move back, or not inclined to do so, although he didn't respond to Draco kissing him. The blinding desire rose in the back of Draco's mind like a roiling tide, and he let his tongue flicker out against Harry's lips, arching closer, yearning for more...

This seemed to spur Harry to action; he started slightly, and pulled back abruptly, breaking their deep contact — Draco bit his lip, and he raised his gaze to look at Harry, almost not wanting to see what lay in those eyes of green — quiet rejection, once more.

"Right," Harry finally said slowly, blinking twice. "Maybe we should sit it out a while longer."

Draco nodded, flushed. "Good idea."

Harry went to sit down by the wall, but instead of joining him Draco went over to a cabinet near the far end of the storage room; he opened it, and to Harry's amazement, took out two bottles of Butterbeer. From what Harry could see, there was at least half a carton of Butterbeer still stocked inside.

"Are you crazy?" Harry said, eyeing the Butterbeer as Draco walked back with one in each hand. "Filch finds your little Butterbeer stash, and you'll be in big trouble."

"Relax," Draco said nonchalantly. "I've put a Squib-Blind Charm on that cabinet — it's something like those Muggle Repellent Charms, only that it repels Squibs, instead. Filch looks in there, and he sees nothing at all... and no one else but him comes up here, anyway."

"Do I really want to know where you learnt all these spells?" Harry said, although he accepted the bottle of Butterbeer that Draco handed him.

"Summer camp," Draco said with a straight face, "for Evil Overlords In Training."

Harry couldn't help laughing, and the tingle of his laughter helped ease the sombreness in the air. He noticed the silvery cursive Alcoholic! spiral across the usual Butterbeer logo as he opened the bottle, and took a swig — it burned a tract of fiery sensation down his throat, but the alcohol soothed his nerves. Draco watched him, and gave a sad smile.

Harry quickly sobered; he noticed the expression on Draco's face, that of one torn between hope harboured and hope lost, caught in the margin where desire and reality hung precariously in the balance.

"I'm sorry," Harry said quietly, looking directly at Draco.

The retort 'Damn right you should be' was already on the tip of Draco's tongue before he bit it back at the last moment; he looked at Harry and saw the forlorn sincerity in his eyes, and the bitter words melted away, leaving only wistful sadness.

Draco swallowed hard, and turned his face away from Harry. "So am I."

11 Crash and Burn

Something the heart must have to cherish,
Must love and joy and sorrow learn;
Something with passion clasp, or perish
And in itself to ashes burn.

"Enervate." A pause, then impatiently, "Come on, Harry! You couldn't have had more than three bottles, how drunk are you?"

Patterns of light and darkness danced in dizzying circles behind his closed lids; Harry refused to open his eyes, and he didn't like the voice that was persistently shouting in his ear — it disturbed the dense, churning peacefulness. He tried to mumble Go away, but all that emerged was an unintelligible grunt.

There was some shuffling of feet beside him which then seemed to grow distant, and the voice was quiet for a while; Harry was relieved, and he tried to immerse himself back into the realm where feeling and thought lay fallen on the ground like dried autumn leaves, where everything was calm in nothingness.

Then suddenly, without warning, a torrent of cold water splashed over his face, bringing harsh, glaring reality back to life in a liquid hiss, sparking a sharp pain that speared like a javelin through his temples.

"Baaaaaaaaaargh!" Harry spluttered, his eyes flashing open; his vision was momentarily dark with excessive bright. Patches of dark grey and white silver shifted in alternating grids before his eyes; he closed them again and groaned, rolling over to one side and clutching his head, trying to crawl away from the cold wetness that had already drenched him. "Arrrrrrrgh..."

Draco set down the half-empty bottle of water, his eyebrows quirking in mild surprise. "Hey, I never knew this actually worked so well. Always read about the Muggles doing it, but I figured, why bother with water when there are spells to do the job?" He shifted closer to Harry, who was curling away from him, and shook him lightly. "Harry, wake up. Open your eyes."

"What...?" Harry slurred, barely opening his eyelids. "Wh—Where am I?"

"Only hell," Draco deadpanned. "But you're in luck, they've turned on the Cooling Charms."

"Eurgh. Malfoy. It's you." The drunken haze abated slightly, permitting a trickle of coherent thought to pass through; Harry opened his left eye a crack. "Figures that I'd meet you in hell, anyway."

Draco dragged Harry into a half-sitting position — Harry tried to move his limbs, but they were recalcitrant; he finally gave up and let Draco do all the work. After struggling for a while and swearing under his breath, Draco managed to get him propped up against the wall.

"Ow," Harry moaned. "My head hurts."

"Yes, that would be the merciful part of a hangover," Draco remarked dryly, handing Harry a dry towel to wipe his face with. The front of Harry's robes was already soaked with the water that ran down his face and chin, although Harry didn't seem to notice. "The brutal part is the guilt and horror and regret, of course."

"Where am I?" Harry managed thickly; Draco's words came through sounding garbled. "What am I doing here? What happened?"

"You downed almost three whole bottles of Butterbeer's new Butterbooze,got dead drunk and promptly passed out." Draco held the half-empty bottle of water to Harry's dry lips, the other half of which he had used to revive him. "Or you got sat on by an overweight mountain troll. Either event would've had the same effect."

Harry drank thirstily, and the cool water sliding down his throat made him feel slightly better, at least quelling the tentative nausea that was kicking in. His head still hurt, but the grogginess eased and he was gradually able to open his eyes and blink normally without wincing from the glare of light.

He squinted over at Draco, instinctive wariness setting in. "And what have youbeen doing here all this while?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Oh, I just poached a couple of your internal organs for sale while you were sleeping. Only a kidney or two, hope you don't mind."

"What've you been doing here?" Harry repeated. Distrust shimmered and deepened in his eyes, and he wished that Draco would stop being ridiculous and just tell him what had happened since he'd passed out. "Have you been sitting here watching me sleep all this time?"

"I told you, I was busy nicking a few of your body parts. Makes for good contraband on the black market, they'll fetch a pretty good price..." A mischievous grin spread over Draco's face, and he added suggestively, "But of course, besides stealing some organs I also put certain others to better use."

Harry's jaw dropped and he stared at Draco, aghast. "What?"

Draco's smirk broadened, and he slid closer to Harry, still smiling deviously. "Don't worry," he purred seductively, "It was wonderful for me. Was it good for you?"

"Oh my god." Harry jerked his arm out of Draco's grasp, and his face was frozen with shock and disbelief "Don't tell me... no. We— we didn't."

Draco's smile vanished, and he dropped his saccharine tone of voice. "Of course we didn't, you idiot. Don't be stupid." He glared at Harry. "Did you really think I'd take advantage of you while you were unconscious?"

"Yes." Harry replied promptly. He groaned, and rubbed his temples ruefully. "Oh blast, this is a disaster... what have I done?"

"Nothing, except for passing out stone dead on the floor about four hours ago." Draco glowered at Harry. "I was just joking, for crying out loud — and not like anything could've happened, anyway, since you weren't quite fully functional, if you know what I mean."

"Shut up, Malfoy." Harry still looked highly sceptical. "So then, why aren't youdrunk as well, if this wasn't just an elaborate plot to get me smashed and defenceless?"

"Because I only had one bottle to drink, and that was it." Draco nodded curtly at the empty Butterbooze bottles, which were all strewn on Harry's side of the floor. "I figured that with love potions and booze in the picture, at least one of us should stay sober."

Harry slapped his forehead. "I almost forgot. The damn love potion. Argh."

Subdued bitterness serrated the edges of Draco's voice. "Yeah well, it's rather harder for me to forget."

Harry's expression softened. "I didn't mean it that way." He sighed, and sat back against the wall, trying to ignore the buzzing in his head, like a dozen Bludgers chasing a single golden Snitch. "I wish this was just a dream, and we could both wake up and say, 'oh what an awful nightmare.'"

"What if it was?" Draco said solemnly, although the sides of his mouth twitched imperceptibly. "All right, Harry, here's the thing; the truth is that you're not really awake — you're still passed out from drinking yourself silly last night, and we're both trapped in an alternate universe, and the only way we can get back to the real world is if we had hot, gratuitous sex right here and now."

"See, when you say such things, it makes it hard to believe you didn't do anything to me while I was unconscious." Harry shot Draco a severe look. "You didn'treally, right?"

Draco ignored him. "It'd actually be a good thing, don't you think? Then we could both go back to being the way we were, and you can tell the tales of my extreme sexual prowess like some hero who went to the edge and back —'he emerged with his pride intact, though not his virginity.'"

Harry raised his eyes to the ceiling. "You know, I take it back — you aretotally drunk."

Draco gave Harry a lingering look, almost one of sadness. "Well, things are an awful lot simpler when you're too drunk to think about anything at all." He got to his feet, coming closer to Harry then dropping to his knees next to him. "Does your head hurt very badly? Do you want a Painkilling Charm?"

Harry started to shake his head, then winced. "Ouch." He held his head to steady the pain, and then raised his eyes wearily to Draco's. "All right. If you know of any."

Draco nodded, and drew out his wand. "I came across a few while reading up. There's this Hangover-B-Gone Spell too, but it sounds rather dodgy and seems like something a drunkard herbologist came up with. Do you want that one too?"

Harry smiled tiredly. "No, I think I'll pass on that. I've enough pain inside my head, I can do without having bean sprouts grow out of my ears or something like that."

Draco tilted Harry's chin up with his left hand, and held the tip of his wand to Harry's temple with the other. Draco's wand pressed into Harry's temple with measured pressure, at a point merely inches away from the lightning bolt scar on his forehead; suddenly Harry was struck with how very vulnerable he was at this very moment, that he had completely submitted himself to be at Draco's mercy— all it took was for Draco to utter the Killing Curse, and magical history books would have to be updated to fill in the latter date of Harry James Potter, 1980 — ?.

"Dolorem adime," Draco said softly.

Harry closed his eyes as he felt a cool sensation rush into his head, like a steady stream of ice, obliterating the ache that throbbed from the base of his skull until it was no more, until all he could feel was the warm touch of Draco's palm against his chin.

When he opened his eyes again, Draco was watching him, a rare look of worry on his face.

"Harry?" he said, taking his wand away. "Did it work?" He paused, and gave a wry smile. "My turn to ask you that."

"Yes," Harry said, truthfully; he allowed himself a small smile back. "It worked, my head feels less like it's been jammed with exploding Filibuster Firecrackers. Thanks."

Draco didn't answer; he simply got to his feet, and offered Harry his hand. Harry was suddenly struck with an overwhelming sense of deja vu — it felt just like the moment only hours ago, when Draco had asked him to dance, and they did. The drunken haze inside his mind had dissipated, but the Painkilling Charm did nothing to blur the vivid memory of the midnight they'd shared; everything came filtering back, clear as crystal. The Anti-toxin potion. The dance. The kiss.

"You all right?" Draco asked again, jolting him out of his reverie. His grey eyes were lit with concern as he looked down at Harry. "I didn't do it wrongly, now did I?"

"I'm fine," Harry said, giving his head a little shake to bring reality back to the fore; he reached up, took Draco's hand and allowed Draco to pull him to his feet. "You didn't do it wrong at all."

"Good." Draco looked relieved; and even though Harry was already standing up, he didn't release Harry's hand. "Because if I screwed this spell up as well, on top of the whole love potion mess, then I was thinking of quitting Hogwarts to major in Being Jinxed."

Harry laughed, in spite of himself; he felt slightly awkward with Draco still holding his hand, and he wondered if he should shake it off — but he couldn't bring himself to. But Draco noticed the apprehension in his abrupt stiffness, and let go of his hand.

"We should go," Draco said, and the imperceptible hurt in his eyes dissolved like smoke from a dying flame. "It's going on 5 a.m., anyway."

"It's almost dawn?" Harry was surprised. He could barely believe the whole night had just raced by like that — but then again, time never seemed proportionate when he was with Draco. It was even harder to believe that his bond with Draco under the potion had only been for about two weeks. Hours were reduced to moments; days felt like weeks on end.

"Yes, it's almost dawn." The edges of Draco's mouth quirked slightly. "Why, do you want to watch the sunrise?"

Harry gave him a tired smile. "Isn't that awfully cliched, given the situation?"

"No," Draco responded. "Sunsets, now those are dreadfully overrated romantic devices." He even managed to look disdainful. "I mean, honestly — riding into them, watching them... a million times over... does it get any more passe?"

"Right," Harry said, stifling a grin. "I gather you don't like sunsets, or romance, or both."

"It's not that," Draco shook his head. "Only because sunsets are awfully sad. They're beautiful, but so transient, and in a blaze of glory they're gone, and it's dark everywhere." He paused. "Whereas sunrises are lovely too — maybe not as dramatic and fiery, but then things only keep getting brighter, and... well, it's a nice feeling." He cut a glance at Harry. "Don't you think so?"

Harry was listening to Draco, silently impressed — he had never imagined that Draco would ever say, or feel, such depth of emotion and sentimentality, or optimism. But then again, he'd never really known Draco, before — he'd never quite given himself the chance to.

"No," Harry finally answered, and saw Draco raise his eyebrow in surprise. "I like sunsets better."

"Why?" Draco tilted his head slightly, looking curious, and, Harry found himself thinking, very fetching. Draco's blond hair was lit with streaks of rich silver by the magical flames burning at the corner of the room, and it cast light shadows on one side of his face; he looked sultry, and no less than beautiful.

Harry could feel the intensity between them mounting again, and it suddenly scared him for a reason that he couldn't quite grasp; he remembered the Anti-toxin, and how it was supposed to be taking effect, and how he and Draco really shouldn't be getting into moments such as these which, frankly, worked contrary to the Anti-toxin's purposes.

"I just do," Harry said; he gave a small shrug as he took a step back, putting a respectable distance between him and Draco. "I guess we're different, that way."

Draco smiled; but it was a subdued smile, lined on the edges with a certain melancholy.

"Yes, we are," he said, and looked directly into Harry's eyes, although Harry couldn't quite discern the emotion held within their clear silver depths.

They gathered up their things: clearing all the empty potion and Butterboozebottles, picking up their robes that had been spread over the floor. The storage room was soon restored to its original state, more or less — Draco put out the magical fires that he'd conjured at the start, and the room grew suddenly dim, only suffused with feeble streams of the waking dawn, filtering in from outside.

Draco turned to Harry, but didn't make any move toward the door; instead he took a single, deliberate step forward, bringing them very close together once again. Harry waited, holding his breath, wondering if Draco was going to kiss him again—

"You dance well, you know." Draco said, looking into Harry's eyes. In the half-light, Draco's eyes radiated their own glow, their own intense feeling.

"Thanks," Harry found the presence of mind to say, still wondering why Draco was standing so close to him, feeling inexplicably hot and bothered by it, though not in an unpleasant way; it felt intoxicating, and Harry figured that the Painkilling Charm Draco gave him was wearing off, and he was starting to feel tipsy again.

"Whoever you take to the Leaving Ball is lucky," Draco continued, his tone of voice inscrutable; and with that he stepped away.

Harry blinked, and once again found himself at a loss for a response. He was increasingly feeling as if his usual verbal reflex capabilities were severely impaired, and he had to blame it in on the inebriation.

"Come on." Draco took him lightly by the wrist, and pulled him toward the door. "Let's go."

Saturday morning was blooming across the wintry blue sky, and it was chilly, almost bitterly so. Harry wrapped his arms around himself and shivered; at least the robes provided a measure of warmth. He wondered how he never noticed the cold until now; he didn't even want to imagine how frosty the Slytherin dungeons must be at the time of year. He glanced at Draco, who seemed indifferent to the weather; perhaps he was used to it — or, used to not showing how he really felt.

"I'll walk you back to your dorm," Draco said, without turning to look at Harry.

"No," Harry responded automatically. "Really, I'm fine."

Just at that moment his foot caught a cleft between the stone steps, and he almost fell forward; Draco grabbed hold of his arm with lightning-fast reflexes, and steadied him.

"Sure," Draco said, with a wry quirk of his eyebrows. "You're fine, Harry, I can totally see that."

"Shut up," Harry muttered, feeling embarrassed. "I just missed a step, that's all."

"Right. Miss a few more, and the next thing I'll hear tomorrow morning is that you're unconscious in the hospital wing." Draco shook his head firmly. "I'm walking you to Gryffindor Tower, and if you insist on being a stubborn git, then I'll put the Mobilicorpus Charm on you and puppet you all the way back."

"All right, all right," Harry conceded. "You're sounding more and more like Madam Pomfrey, you know."

"No," Draco said, tilted his head slightly towards Harry; faint rays of amber dawn slanting in from an overhead window fell across Draco's face, colouring his cheeks pale primrose, lighting his eyes with warm grey. "I just don't want anything to happen to you, that's all."

"What could possibly happen to me?" Harry asked, with a wry smile. "Get mauled by Mrs Norris, the fearsome feline of Hogwarts?"

"No, actually, I was thinking more in the terms of tripping over thin air and falling on your nose in a very unflattering manner." Draco gave an innocent smile, in exchange for a withering look from Harry. They rounded a bend, and the entrance to Gryffindor Tower came into view; they drew to a halt, and peeked around the pillar.

"Is the fat woman in your portrait asleep?" Draco whispered, pointing at the Fat Lady, who was happily snoring, it still being too early for any of the other students to be out of bed.

"Yes," Harry whispered back. "She didn't see you. But you'd better go, in case anyone else comes by — then you'd have some explaining to do."

Draco nodded wordlessly, and was about to turn to go when Harry called out to him again.

"Malfoy," Harry said, raising his voice slightly.

Draco immediately looked back at him, an obscure emotion flitting across his face, mildly questioning. Harry took a deep breath, and sighed.

"The Anti-toxin potion will work," he said finally, mustering as much confidence in his voice as he could, and he knew he was trying to convince himself as much as Draco. "Just give it time."

Draco took a step forward, and then stopped; the fiery silver in his eyes was tarnished with a certain sadness, although still backlit with hope, a hope that seemed to flare and fade at the same instant, each time he looked at Harry.

"Time is all I have," he said, his voice imperceptibly bitter. "And we've already come so far, anyway."
"How are you feeling, now?" Harry asked.

Draco thought for a moment, and then answered simply, "Light-headed."

"Oh." Harry pondered. "From what? Head rush?"

"No."

"Lack of sleep?"

"No."

"Butterbeer, then?"

"No," Draco shook his head. "You."

Then he leaned forward, and took Harry's face in his hands; the touch of Draco's hands felt electric against his cheeks, the intoxication of this intimacy was more than any form of alcohol could ever achieve. Harry thought that Draco was going to kiss him again, on his lips; he closed his eyes, and held his breath— but then at the last moment, Draco gently tilted Harry's head slightly and kissed him on the cheek instead, the sheer restraint burning like a closed fire in Draco's fingertips, branding Harry's skin with its light, yearning touch.

Draco finally pulled away and let go of Harry, taking a step backwards; he lowered his eyes briefly, almost as if bashful, and then glanced up at Harry again.

"Thanks," he said, quietly.

Harry looked at him, surprised. "What for?"

"For trying." Draco's voice was low, perfectly even. "You didn't have to."

"I know," Harry said, still slightly breathless, and he added without thinking, "I wanted to."

He saw the astonishment dart across Draco's face, accompanied by something else, something far deeper and more complicated — but before he could decipher what it was, Draco looked away; he abruptly turned, slithered off into the pale shadows, and was gone.

When it was time for breakfast, Harry dragged himself down the steps leading down from the boys' dormitory into the common room, less than three hours after he'd crawled up the stairs, having parted ways with Draco at the break of dawn. He felt exhausted and incoherent and grumpy; Ron and Seamus were with him, chattering on about Quidditch-practice-homework-Snape-detention-something, a train of conversation that Harry quickly lost, amidst his own troubled thoughts.

They climbed through the portrait hole, and were greeted by a loud crash of thunder and pouring rain, lashing against the closed windows. It was a rare morning storm, more unusual still because Harry remembered that when he and Draco had walked back to Gryffindor Tower together, the weather had been fairly clear, even though gnawingly cold, with not a dark cloud in sight.

How quickly things change.

Harry felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned; Hermione was standing next to him.

"What an awful morning, it looks as if it has been up all night," she commented, and then cut Harry a meaningful look. "Just like someone."

"It went fine last night, Hermione." Harry gave her a tired look. "We followed your instructions and made the potion, and Malfoy drank it."

"Really?" Hermione looked surprised, and then hopeful. "So Malfoy's all right, now?"

"Not just yet, but soon. Twenty-four hours, remember?"

Hermione groaned. "That does not constitute 'it went fine', Harry, unless you were referring to something else." She gave him a narrowed look. "Which brings me to the question, what exactly happened last night? May I remind you that you've already used up your excuse about being locked in the trunk."

"No, not that," Harry answered, dully. "I got drunk, though."

Hermione's eyes widened, and she clutched at Harry's arm with a suddenness that made Harry jump.

"You got drunk!" she hissed, incredulously. "While you were with Malfoy? What were you thinking, Harry! Did he do anything to you?"

"NO!" Harry said violently, glaring at Hermione. "Of course he didn't do anything to me, Herm!"

"Oh, really." Hermione looked highly sceptical, and crossed her arms. "And what makes you so sure of that, hmm? I'm sure you've heard of the phrase 'drunk and stupid' — those two conditions often go together."

"Well," Harry said, rubbing his temples, "Draco said he didn't do anything."

Hermione looked thunderstruck. "So?" she demanded.

"So I believe him," Harry said plainly, and looked at her, puzzled. "What's the problem?"

Hermione appeared as if she was going to explode with a lengthy rant, but then at the last moment seemed to think better of it; she settled for giving Harry a long, cross look, and then spoke slowly, in a low, controlled tone.

"All right," she started; then, she was interrupted as Ron sauntered up to them, looking fresh and bright.

"What's up?" he asked curiously, when he saw Harry and Hermione standing aside, talking.

"Go away, Ron," Hermione said impatiently; there were details and answers to be grilled out of Harry, who was being reticent and hung-over at the moment. "We're planning your birthday surprise."

"My birthday surprise?" Ron looked pleased, but puzzled. "But my birthday's not till next March, Hermione."

"Oh, you know Hermione," Harry added blandly, before Hermione could answer. "She likes to have everything plotted out in advance. It's an idiosyncrasy that we love her for."

"All right, then," Ron grinned, and wandered off with the rest of the Gryffindors, who were heading off to the Great Hall for breakfast; but not before tossing over his shoulder, "Harry, you do know which page of the new Which Broomstick catalogue I've been spending the past few days staring at, now don't you..."

Actually, Harry didn't have the faintest clue which page Ron had been staring at, or that Ron had been going around with his nose in a Which Broomstick catalogue, or even that Which Broomstick had released its latest annual catalogue, either. He'd been... preoccupied.

"Sure," he called after Ron weakly, then turned back to Hermione. "Damn, have to check with Seamus if he's heard Ron raving about a broom lately."

Hermione eyed Harry, and then sighed.

"Just look at you," she said, shaking her head. "I really think you're getting yourself all spent on this Malfoy thing, way more than you should. I know you want to help him," she continued, as Harry was about to protest, "but not at your own expense. You haven't been yourself of late, Harry. You've been falling back on your homework, behaving lukewarmly about Quidditch, not sleeping enough at night, and now, worse still, getting drunk, all on Malfoy's account. It's not worth it, Harry."

The initial protests faltered on Harry's tongue, and he slumped back against the pillar; he stared out at the sheets of rain battering the windows, and felt utterly drained, and confused, and lost.

"I know," he finally said, slowly. "But he needs my help, Hermione."

"And you have helped him, Harry." Hermione's expression softened, although her face was still etched with frustration and anxiety. "You've done everything you can possibly do, and much, much more. Malfoy is lucky to have you. But there's still a limit to how much you can help him — he just has to try and help himself, too."

"How?" Harry turned to Hermione, a light of hidden pain shining in his eyes. "How is he supposed to help himself when he's damn near losing hold of who he really is? When he doesn't know what to think, or feel, or how to cope with something he doesn't even fully understand?" He paused. "We can't expect a person under the Imperius Curse to behave the way he wants to — just as we can't expect someone under a love potion to make his own decisions."

Hermione was silent for a moment; Harry sighed, and pushed himself away from the pillar, and they both started walking down the empty corridor toward the Great Hall together, where the rest of the students had already gone. Finally, Hermione spoke up.

"And do you think you're really helping him?" she asked, her voice quiet and introspective. "By going to see him every night. By spending time with him. Do you think it's actually easy for him, when he's all alone with you, especially with the love potion?"

"Not for much longer," Harry corrected her, "the Anti-toxin potion, remember?"

"That's beside the point, Harry," Hermione said, sounding frustrated. "The point is, you've spent all that time with him while he was still under the love potion spell, the Anti-toxin notwithstanding. And besides, you just said that it hasn't exactly taken effect, since it has up to a twenty-four hour time lag."

Harry gritted his teeth, and reminded himself how sharp and observant Hermione always was. And something else bothered him, something about what Hermione was saying — it was an unpleasant perspective, to think that while he had been trying to help Draco, his very presence was already something that hurt Draco, immensely. Of course, at the back of his mind he knew the way that the love potion bound them, and how flashes of that chemically-induced yearning surfaced from time to time when Draco kissed him... but...

"Harry," Hermione said loudly. "Are you listening to me?"

"Hmm?" Harry hurriedly extricated himself from his reverie. "Oh, sorry, what did you say?"

Hermione gave him a long-suffering look.

"I said," she repeated. "I think I should take over from you at this point — I'll find Malfoy later to ask him if he's feeling the Anti-toxin potion taking effect, and then I'll tell you what he says. And since it's Saturday and there aren't any classes after breakfast, I want you to go back to the dorm afterwards and get some sleep — before you're so exhausted that you fall off your broom during Quidditch practice this evening."

When Hermione spoke in this sort of authoritative voice, Harry knew that it would be no use trying to plead his case; he gave up, and nodded, albeit reluctantly. "Okay, whatever you say."

"Oh!" Hermione rolled her eyes, as they reached the Great Hall. "I knew Malfoy was trouble right from the start — and he's successfully proven that point in every imaginable way."

Harry found himself glancing over to the Slytherin table as soon as he stepped into the Great Hall — and his eyes immediately searched out Draco, who was sitting at his usual place, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. Draco looked small and wan, and not just because of the two towering blocks on either side of him — and only now did Harry realise that Draco probably hadn't gotten any sleep for the entire night.

Hermione quickly noticed Harry's attention straying over to the Slytherin table, to a certain blond-haired, grey-eyed Slytherin boy in particular; she seized his arm, and steered him over to the Gryffindor table.

Harry forced himself to look away from Draco, and allowed himself to be propelled over to his own seat — but in his mind, and imprinted on the backs of his lids each time he closed them, still remained the image of clear, silver eyes, lit in the darkness by a fierce, hidden light radiating from within.

Later in the afternoon, Hermione searched Draco out, and finally found a moment alone with him as the blond boy was walking back to the Slytherin dungeons.

She tapped him sharply on the shoulder, and cleared her throat loudly. Draco turned, almost expectantly, although he looked disappointed when he saw her; it made Hermione wonder whom Draco had been expecting, or rather hoping for, and it didn't take a smart witch like her any time to figure that out.

"Hello, Granger," Draco said, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Need a cough drop?"

"No, but I want to talk to you," she said significantly, "about Harry."

Something altered in Draco's closed expression, ever so slightly; but then he nodded, and without any arguments, followed Hermione as she led him into an empty classroom. They walked right past the narrow corridor, in the shadows of which he and Harry had once kissed; Draco slowed as he passed it, and then forced down the tender memories as he strode after Hermione again.

When they were both in the classroom, Hermione closed the door behind them, and then turned to Draco, who was looking at her suspiciously.

"Why didn't Harry come and look for me, himself?" he demanded, crossing his arms and looking distrustfully at Hermione. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Hermione answered shortly. "And I told him not to come and look for you."

Draco's eyes narrowed.

"I always knew you were a killjoy, Granger," he said, mutinously.

"I am not a killjoy!" Hermione said hotly, glaring at Draco. "I'm only doing this for Harry's own good, and speaking of which, I don't appreciate your getting him drunk and defenceless as to any strange untoward things you have up your sleeve."

"Ha!" Draco made a scornful sound. "Oh please, Granger, I didn't do anything to Harry last night. He just got hooked on the taste of Butterbooze and downed three bottles at a go. I made sure that he didn't do anything self-mutilating that might scar him for the rest of his life."

"I'm more worried that you might've done something to scar him for the rest of his life," Hermione retorted, not one to mince her words. "And you shouldn't even have gotten him drunk in the first place!"

"Yes, yes," Draco said, in a bored tone. "Go on, I didn't get any sleep last night, so your morality lecture will be a good lullaby to knock me out right now."

"Oh!" Hermione placed her hands on her hips, getting very angry. "Draco Malfoy, you are a selfish, obnoxious, irritating, arrogant little twit!"

There was a pause.

"You forgot 'smug', 'handsome' and 'to die for'," Draco finally offered.

Hermione looked as if she was going to lose her temper, but seemed to be able to steel herself to keep her composure.

"All right, Malfoy," she said, her eyes flashing with annoyance. "I promised Harry that I'd come and ask how you're doing, so just tell me how you're feeling and get this over with."

"That'll teach you," Draco said, with a smirk. "I much prefer to talk to Harry personally, anyway."

"If you don't answer my question right now," Hermione said calmly, "I will transfigure you into a toad, and take you to Harry so that you can have a meaningful conversation with him, in which I'm very sure he isn't going to kiss you."

Draco looked torn between bursting out in laughter, and being alarmed that Hermione might really carry out her threat.

"Okay," he finally said. "I'm feeling the same as I have for the past couple of weeks. No change. So maybe the Anti-toxin potion of yours only works after twenty-four hours, like Harry said."

"Listen," Hermione said. "I never said that it would work for sure, all right? I said that it might be a way out of this, and it certainly was the best, if not only plan we had."

"Right," Draco said blandly, although there was an underlying sharpness in his voice. "Stick on the handy little disclaimers, now."

"You know, you're taking a whole for granted," Hermione flared up. "I've put in a lot of work doing research for you, and I don't you owe one single thing, Malfoy."

"Maybe you don't," Draco snapped back. "But Harry does."

There was a surprised pause.

"Harry?" Hermione sounded astounded. "He doesn't owe you anything either!"

"Yes he does," Draco said, his voice taut and twisted with anger, anger that he didn't even know he had buried within him until now. When Harry was with him, it was so easy to hide the pain and hurt beneath the blinding intoxication of having Harry by his side — and when he looked into Harry's eyes every other emotion drained away like a swirl of disappearing mist, everything except the sharp pang of yearning — for love, for him.

But now, the onslaught of frustration and helplessness brought with them a newfound rage, irrational and wild, which tore against the restraint that always came to Draco so naturally, which had been bred in him like a skin of honour — to show no emotion, to uphold his pride and dignity. But since then, his control was something he had already surrendered.

"It's Harry's fault," Draco continued fiercely, "because he makes me feel this way. Maybe he doesn't mean to, but he does all the same. And it hurts, and I can't show it, and I want to tell him but he won't understand." He broke off, realising that he was pouring out all he felt in front of Hermione, of all people; the emotion in his eyes shuttered up as he took a step back; he added bitterly, "And you thought Harry had it tough, didn't you?"

Hermione was staring at him with startled alarm; when she spoke, her voice was hard and determined.

"I do think Harry has it tough," she repeated firmly. "And what you're going through is still not Harry's fault, although I agree that it isn't a good idea for both of you to get together anymore. Which is exactly why I came to talk to you, instead of him."

"Don't tell Harry I what I said," Draco cut in, abruptly.

"Why not?" Hermione's eyes narrowed. "Afraid to let him know how you really feel? Because it'd kill you to be, for once in your life, truthful to someone who gives a damn about you?"

"No." Draco's voice was expressionless. "Because I want to tell him myself."

"No way." Hermione said immediately, shaking her head. "You aren't going to meet him anymore, Malfoy, and that's final."

"Just one more time," Draco said; his voice wasn't pleading, but sadly wistful.

"No."

"Shove off, Granger, I have a right to talk to him."

"Oh, is that so!" Hermione raised her voice, as she placed her hands on her hips. "And what makes you think that? Give me one good reason why."

"Because he owns a part of me that can't be replaced!" Draco shouted back. "Because I'll never be the same with him, or without him — and because we're bound, he and I, by something that can't even be explained, much less understood." He paused, and took a deep breath. "There, you asked for a reason and I've given you three — and I think you shouldn't start judging things you don't feel, Granger."

Hermione stood and looked at Draco, and for once an answer eluded her.

Draco gave her another searching look, before he said, "Harry has Quidditch practice this evening. Tell him to meet me after that."

"Malfoy..." Hermione started.

"I need to talk to him," Draco said, a mix of earnest and desperation in his voice. "For one last time."

Hermione was about to protest again, but something in Draco's eyes stopped her; she sighed, and finally nodded, albeit reluctantly. Her expression softened; she noticed something different about Draco: the way he talked, and the words he spoke, especially about Harry. There was pain, there was anguish.... as well as something else, burning like a hidden fire, intense and desolate.

"All right," she finally said, and there was sympathy and a certain understanding in her brown eyes as she looked at Draco. "Just this once more — and not only for Harry's sake."

Ron trudged back to Gryffindor Tower after his detention, feeling exhausted. Snape had made him scrub all the gunk from the tables in the Potions classroom until they were sparkling clean on top and underneath; his arms now ached and his fingers felt raw. He grimaced as he flopped down on his own bed; there was no one else in the dormitory, since Harry had gone off for Quidditch practice and the other boys were downstairs in the common room. Hermione had been nowhere to be seen, all evening.

He checked the time; it was already past eight, which meant that Quidditch practice was probably over. Ron wished that he'd been there to watch — he was anxious to see how the team was faring, especially with the upcoming games, and especially the re-match with Slytherin. He'd always wanted to be a part of the Gryffindor team, in some way or the other — it was a duty as much as a desire, since his older brothers Charlie, Fred and George had all played for the house during their time at Hogwarts.

Feeling bored, he suddenly had an idea; he leaned over to his bedside table, and rummaged through the drawer for his Omnioculars. Taking it out, he spun the replay dial to rewind it; Omnioculars could hold footage of the most recent match they were used in.

He rewound the action until just minutes before Harry and Malfoy had collided, and let it play from that point onwards, watching the match unfold all over again in slow motion, particularly zooming in on Harry and Malfoy as they raced in random patterns across the sky.

He watched as Harry executed an original variation of the Wronski Feint in an effort to shake Malfoy off his tail and in pursuit of the Snitch. He watched as Malfoy seemed to anticipate Harry's move, and instead of being fooled, accurately shot in the direction that Harry was going to turn. Ron held his breath as he waited for them to collide, and he watched in fascination as, amazingly enough, Harry seemed to swerve impossibly fast at the last moment, almost quicker than normal reflexes could react — the two Seekers avoided a head-on crash by the slenderest of margins, their robes barely grazing — but then Malfoy abruptly fell off his broom, and plunged to the ground.

Ron couldn't believe his eyes; he rewound the Omnioculars, and replayed it once more, and then again. But one thing was for sure — Harry and Malfoy hadn't collided.

Ron set the Omnioculars down, and frowned slightly. He hadn't thought of re-playing the game until now, since Harry had been so adamant that he and Malfoy had crashed; Ron had of course asserted that Malfoy had done it deliberately, but Harry had dismissed it as accidental, so Ron had taken Harry's word and hadn't pursued the matter any further. Until now...

If they hadn't collided, Ron wondered, baffled, why had Harry said so surely that they did?

Before he had time to ponder about it, there was a tapping on the window of their dormitory; outside hovered an owl, carrying a parcel. Ron padded over to let the owl in; with a soft flurry of wings the owl swooped gracefully into the dormitory, deposited the package it was carrying onto Harry's bed, before circling around the room and descending upon a sack of Owl Treats in Ron's open drawer, which he had bought for Pigwidgeon. The owl ripped open the sack and began devouring its contents greedily.

"Right," Ron said, eyeing it with mild alarm. "Er, why don't you just help yourself, then."

He went over to Harry's bed, and curiously inspected the package. It looked familiar, the shape and size of it — and there was a note attached to it as well. Ron leaned over, and read:

Thanks for the Cloak. S.

"Aha," Ron said to himself, with a knowing grin. "Sirius has finally returned Harry's Invisibility Cloak! Thought we'd never get to sneak around Hogwarts in proper fashion again!"

Putting the wrapped Cloak back down onto Harry's bed, Ron glanced over at the owl, which had succeeded in ripping the sack to shreds and had spilt all the remaining Owl Treats inside his drawer. He groaned, and was about to go over to chase the owl off when he suddenly noticed something on Harry's bedside table.

It was a thick book, not like any of the ones they needed for lessons; on closer inspection, Ron saw that it bore the title Medical Magic on its cover. He was surprised to see such a book on Harry's table — it seemed more like something Hermione would have for 'light bedtime reading' — and as far as he knew, Harry had never professed an ambition to become a mediwizard.

Ron lifted the book — it was heavy — and as he flipped through it out of curiosity, a piece of paper fluttered from between the pages, and fell to the floor.

Harry took a quick shower in the changing room after Quidditch practice, and then slinked off under the cover of darkness toward the Astronomy Tower instead of back to his dormitory. He walked quickly, anxiety weighted in each of his silent footsteps; he was feeling very worried, and not without reason.

Hermione had relayed the message from Draco, asking to meet him after his Quidditch practice that night. He had been surprised that Hermione had even consented to another such meeting, much less delivered the message; Hermione had also seemed troubled, when they talked later on.

"He really wants to see you, Harry," Hermione had said, in a subdued voice. "He said this will be the very last time, and that he wants to tell you something."

"What does he want to tell me?" Harry had asked, but Hermione had only shaken her head and shrugged.

"Just be careful," was all she had warned. "And control what you do or say, because it probably affects him more than you imagine."

To hear such words from Hermione was especially disturbing — even though she'd related everything she and Draco had talked about, ad verbatim, Harry couldn't help wondering if there was something else she had seen in Draco, which hadn't been expressed in words.

He reached the storage room, and as usual, Draco was there, waiting. The moment he saw Draco, cloaked in the candle-lit darkness, Harry couldn't help noticing how vulnerable he looked, his features outlined in forlorn shadows, a reflection of the night that hung around them in all its bleak glory.

"Malfoy." The distantness of using Draco's last name was incongruous to the depth of feeling evident in Harry's voice. "How are you?"

"All right," was Draco's short reply, as Harry closed the door and walked towards him.

"Hermione told me that you didn't feel... any different, than before." There was a hopeful tone in Harry's words. "It's been almost twenty-four hours now —"

"And nothing." Draco cut in; his voice was frayed with helplessness and pain, and his eyes flashed with a caged emotion. "I feel exactly the same, and nothing has fucking changed at all."

Harry was taken aback by Draco's sharp, raw words — surprise quickly changed to annoyance as his own frustration boiled to the surface, and the only logical person he could vent it on was Draco.

"You know something? Hermione is right about you." Harry said, glaring at Draco. "You're just a selfish, ungrateful git who only cares about himself."

"Oh, so she said that about me?" Draco's voice was cutting, without any humour.

"No," Harry answered flatly. "I did."

Draco looked startled; a frank emotion ghosted across his face, something that cracked the veneer of cold sharpness and laid bare the truth, which stabbed Harry far deeper than he ever imagined.

"You're just like the rest of them," Draco finally said softly, his voice slicing through the tension between them.

"Am I?" Harry challenged, folding his arms across his chest. "Well, maybe I'm missing something, but I don't see 'the rest of them' falling over themselves, risking their necks while trying to help you. I don't see a single other person who's crazy enough to stand by you through this whole stupid mess, except me and Hermione... and I'm starting to think that's exactly what it is — a stupid thing to do."

"Harry..." Draco began.

"Do you even realise that these past couple of weeks haven't exactly been a picnic for me, either? I haven't been able to sleep properly because I'm either reading thick dusty books that Hermione excavated from the library, or sneaking around Hogwarts to meet you, or just staying awake trying to think about what the hell to do next, if nothing else works."

"Will you just—"

"I've been falling back on my life because of you, Draco. I have tons and tons of incomplete readings and undone homework. I can't play Quidditch properly, I can't concentrate during classes because you're always staring at me, and... and Ron. I'm lying to him, going behind his back just to see you. I've neglected him a lot recently, simply because I can't handle so many things at the same time. And I feel guilty, all right? Guilty because he's been there for me when —"

"— let me kiss you?"

Harry stopped short in mid-rant. "What? What did you just say?"

"You heard me."

"Right. I did." Harry glared, and folded his arms. "And where the hell did that come from? I'm trying to talk sensibly with you here, Malfoy, are you even listening to me? Or is that all you can think about?"

"Yes." Draco's voice was suddenly heartrendingly quiet. "That is all I can think about. You don't understand how I feel, Harry, and I don't blame you for that, because there's no way you possibly can — although yelling at me until you turn blue in the face really isn't helping either of us."

Harry felt some of his anger evaporate; he took a small step back, feeling extremely tired — tired of arguing, tired of sneaking around, tired of seeing Draco hurt so badly yet try to hide it.

"Why are you even asking me?" he finally said wearily, with a small shrug. "Even if I said no, you'd probably go ahead and do it anyway."

Wry bitterness twitched on the edges of Draco's mouth. "You make it sound almost non-consensual."

"Well, let's just say you always seem to skip the part where I see it coming," Harry replied. "So the issue of my choice never had much of a chance to come up, in the first place."

"Once more." Draco said, his voice quivering with emotion. "That's all."

Harry tilted his head slightly, looking at Draco. "And how does this help things?"

"It doesn't." Draco's eyes were dark and bright at the same time. "But I don't know what else to do."

"No, Draco." Harry shook his head, remembering what Hermione had cautioned him. "It's not a good idea, and it isn't going to make you feel any better."

"Do you want to know what'll make me feel better, Harry?" Draco asked plainly; he allowed a significant pause, before adding quietly, "I thought you'd have known by now."

"But the Anti-toxin potion..."

"Isn't working," Draco interrupted. "I'm still —"

"Don't say it," Harry whispered.

"Still hopelessly drawn to you." Draco finished, and looked straight at Harry; something in his eyes softened. "I know you're just trying to help, Harry — but after midnight, when the Anti-toxin potion has had twenty-four hours to work, you'll see that there's nothing else left that you can do."

"So..." Harry paused, staring at Draco. "What exactly do you mean? And what did you tell Hermione you wanted to say to me?"

"That it's over," Draco said, taking a step closer to Harry, who looked startled but rooted to the spot. "That there isn't a way out of this. There simply isn't. And I can't go on this way any longer, seeing you like this — it only makes it worse." He paused, and took a deep breath. "So this is the last time, Harry — and I have just this one last thing to ask of you."

There was a long pause, filled with quiet anticipation.

"All right." Harry sighed, and gave up trying to rationalise. "Given the alternative is probably being slammed up against the wall in a very rough fashion, anyway."

"That can be arranged." Draco said, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

"Nice try, Malfoy." Harry narrowed his eyes. "And if your hands try to get under my shirt, you're out of here, you understand?"

"Oh, stuff ground rules."

"I mean it, Malfoy."

Draco didn't move closer; instead he simply asked, "Why?"

"Why, what?"

"Why are you doing this?" he met Harry's gaze levelly. "You've never voluntarily let me kiss you before, and when I do you always flinch away. Why are you agreeing now?"

Harry thought about it for a moment.

"I don't know," he finally answered, truthfully. "It's the only thing I can give you right now." He paused, and his voice coloured with a certain sadness; he forced himself to add, "And it's all I can give you, any more."

Draco came closer to him, drawing to a halt just inches away. The shadows fell lightly around them; Harry felt Draco's hand lightly brush his shoulder, and he tensed; Draco must have sensed it as well, because he quickly let his hand drop.

"Close your eyes," Draco said softly; they were standing face to face, not touching, their lips a mere kiss away.

Harry's eyes automatically flew open.

"Why?" he asked suspiciously.

"So I can take all your clothes off while you're not looking." Draco raised his eyes in exasperation. "Fine, keep your eyes open if you want to."

And then Draco leaned in and kissed Harry, tenderly; his hands remained clenched by his sides, and only their lips touched. Harry forced himself to relax as he felt Draco's mouth brush against his, and he let his eyes fall closed; somehow, this kiss felt different, like an altogether new sensation — Draco had kissed him before, but not... like this. This wasn't just kissing, it was loving, an act of romance that far surpassed anything he had ever experienced before. And it was... it was...

Draco pulled back, and his eyes were misted over, glowing pearly silver in the half-darkness. Harry opened his eyes, feeling breathless; it felt like being jolted awake just as he had been starting to dream. He blinked twice as the memory of the kiss flooded back — and he couldn't explain why, but it was profound, as if Draco had poured every part of himself into that single moment: his anguish, his confusion, his yearning, his hopelessness, his love — and it ignited something deep within Harry, something which suddenly became so clear.

"It's sad, isn't it?" Draco said softly, although he didn't move away.

"What's sad?" Harry managed, the word escaping on an exhaled breath.

"I don't know," Draco gave a little shrug. "This. You and me. It just feels so..."

"Painful?" Harry asked, feeling the very shape of the word within him.

"Yes — but also..."

"Final?"

"In a way — and so very..."

"Perfect?" Harry whispered; the next thing he knew, he had closed the short distance that lay between them, and he was kissing Draco, and it was perfection.

Harry's hands moved up to hold Draco's shoulders; he turned the other boy and nudged him up against the wall, firmly but not forcefully — and he held Draco as he kissed him hard, almost desperately. Draco didn't move for a few moments, clearly too startled to react; then Draco's lips parted, deepening the kiss, and Harry felt the velvet heat of Draco's tongue flickering out against his own.

He had never kissed Draco before — it had always been Draco kissing him — and this was a completely new sensation, like a moment woven beyond his imagination. Draco's lips were soft, his tongue wet and hot as Harry savoured the taste of desire, kept too long yet perfected by the drawn-out wait, sweet like fine wine — and Draco was kissing him back, returning the passion and eagerness locked between them.

Harry's arms slid down to encircle Draco's waist; he could feel Draco's hands slide up his chest, moving to link around his neck, his trembling fingers tangling in Harry's tousled hair. Draco let out a sound like a muffled sob and gasp against Harry's mouth; Harry pressed himself against Draco's body, trapping him against the wall, his embrace fiercely comforting and fervently possessive — and there was nothing left between them except the rapid beating of their hearts, and the feverish kiss they shared as if it was their last, or first...

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless and panting, their eyes filled with mutual disbelief and realisation — Draco let his hands fall from where they had been caressing Harry's hair, and his wrists now rested on Harry's shoulder; Harry loosened his hold around Draco's waist, allowing him some breathing space from being pinned up against the wall.

Harry looked at Draco — the other boy seemed shaken, out of breath as if winded. Draco removed one hand away from Harry's shoulder and placed it against his own chest, trying to still the quick short stabs of his breathing; Harry wondered if he had accidentally broken a few of Draco's ribs when he had slammed him against the wall.

"Are you all right?" Harry asked anxiously, reluctantly to draw back; the warmth of Draco's body against his own felt comfortable, like coming home to a special place that he had known all along, only never discovered before.

Draco nodded shortly, twice. "I just feel a bit dizzy, that's all. And short of breath."

Harry hesitated, then said in a rush, "Draco, I think I —"

But before he could finish, the doorknob creaked and the door swung open; the sudden jarring sound made Harry and Draco spring apart, and their heads snapped in the direction of the noise — but there was no one there.

"What was..." Draco began, his eyes darting back and forth; Harry glanced around apprehensively as well, suddenly aware of the shifting shadows filling the darkened corners of the room.

Then there was a soft rustle, like leaves bristling in the stiff wind — and suddenly Ron appeared in the doorway, looking bewildered and horrified, the Invisibility Cloak clutched in his hand.

"Harry?" Ron said incredulously, staring at them both with eyes wide as saucers. "Malfoy?"

12 Wildfire

Many play the game of love; but few ever know the score.

Hermione burst into the Gryffindor common room, out of breath from running. She glanced around urgently, scanning the room with her eyes but evidently not finding the person she was looking for.

"'Lo, Hermione," Seamus called out from where he was sitting with Dean and Neville. "What's up?"

"Where's Harry?" Hermione demanded. "Is he back from Quidditch practice yet? I need to talk to him rightnow."

"Stand in line, Herm." Seamus rolled his eyes. "What is up with Harry tonight! Ron just came down and asked us the same question. Well, Harry didn't come in and we don't know where he is. You'd think that if his two best friends couldn't find him, he must really not want to be found."

"Ron was looking for him, too?" Hermione's heart sank. "So where's Ron gone off to?"

"Dunno." Seamus shrugged, and then broke into a knowing grin. "You just missed him, actually —we think he's gone off for an S. A."

"S. A.?" Hermione repeated. "What's that?"

"It stands for Snog Appointment," Dean chipped in with an impish wink. "See, Ron was asking us if Filch usually patrolled the fifth floor of the Astronomy Tower after dark — and we all know Ron never actually draws his star charts, he just copies them off the textbooks."

"What!" Hermione exclaimed, dismayed; she spun on her heel and dashed out of the common room without a further word.

Seamus, Dean and Neville stared after her, looking nonplussed.

"Oops," Seamus spoke cautiously. "Was it something I said?"

"You think she's into Ron?" Neville asked, wide-eyed. "She seemed upset when we said Ron might be off snogging."

"But she came in asking for Harry," Dean pointed out. "Not Ron."

"Maybe she's afraid Ron's gone off to snog Harry?" Seamus offered with a wicked smile.

"What?" Dean and Neville said together; Dean shook his head dismissively. "No way. Not Harry and Ron, I don't think so. Really."

"Harry and Hermione then?" Seamus suggested.

"Now I'm getting confused," wailed Neville. "Who do we think is snogging who, again?"

"Only one way to find out," said Seamus decisively, sounding pleased. "We'll just have to see who comes back looking thoroughly snogged."

"And how exactly does one 'look snogged'?" Dean inquired, amused.

"Oh, you know... the usual," Seamus said, sounding very authoritative on the subject. "Cheeks flushed with colour, lips tinged a rosy hue, eyes misted with passion, a general breathless and guilty look..."

"Hey, how d'ya know so much about what it's like to be snogged, hmm?" Dean interrupted, quirking an eyebrow.

Seamus gave him an angelic smile, and with a casual shrug of his shoulders, turned back to his homework.

Hermione had a gift of perceptiveness, a certain intuition that sent warning tremors through her mind each time she sensed that trouble was waiting around the bend. And now, as she hurried along the corridors that led toward the storage room in the Astronomy Tower, something akin to a massive earthquake was building inside her head.

She almost stumbled on the edge of a step as she reached the fifth floor. The oppressive silence that hung all around did nothing to appease her fears; it only served as a foreboding of unpleasant things that were almost certain to come. If she could only get there on time, to warn Harry...

She hastily rounded the bend, and stopped dead in her tracks.

The door to the storage room was hanging open, and Ron stood inside the doorway. His posture was rigid, as if frozen with shock — and clutched tightly in his hand was the silvery Invisibility Cloak. Behind him, Hermione saw Harry and Draco: their faces were flushed, the heated tinge on their lips visible against white shadows of candlelight cast on their skin.

"Oh,crap," Hermione exclaimed, unable to contain herself as she surveyed the scene before her. It was like watching a disaster unfolding yet being completely helpless to stop it.

Ron turned at Hermione's tight voice behind him; his eyes widened even more, but it seemed that words still failed him. Unbearable tension hung in the air, and the mounting stillness promised an even worse outburst at the end of it; although no one seemed willing, or in enough possession of their faculties, to cast the first stone.

Harry's shaky voice finally speared through the silence, shattering it. "Ron."

At the sound of his own name from Harry's lips, the same lips that had so clearly just... it spurred Ron to action. He just couldn't take it anymore.

"What the hell is going on?" Ron exploded, his eyes flashing as he looked from Harry to Malfoy and then back again. "Harry, what are you doing in here, alone with Malfoy? What the —" he broke off; his face was an alarming shade of crimson. "Does anyone mind telling me what the fuck is going on here?"

"Ron!" Hermione broke in, her voice bearing a clear tone of warning, as well as fear. "Calm down — stop shouting before somebody hears you and comes over!"

"And why not?" Ron whirled on her. "Something's definitely wrong here, and I think someone is simply delighted at the idea of getting a detention," he spun back and gave Draco a cold, steel-wrought look, "seeing that he's gone to such great lengths to flout the school rules."

"Do you want to get Harry in trouble as well?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Well, it seems like he's done that all by himself," Ron said, his voice thinly controlled, quivering with suppressed rage.

He turned to face Harry, and his anger seemed to ebb slightly, replaced by a pained desperation and fervent disbelief. Their eyes held for a long, intense moment filled with raw, revealed emotion, sad black eyes fixed on fiery blue; and in Harry's silence came the wordless answer to Ron's unspoken question. Harry's lack of denial was a bitter confirmation of what Ron had wished was only a trick of his eyes: Harry, with his arms around Malfoy's waist, staring into his eyes with an adoration that Ron had never, ever seen him direction at anyone else...

Ron's eyes glazed with liquid anguish, as his eyes flickered briefly over to Malfoy. The blond boy held his calm, dignified silence; his grey eyes were remote, but Ron saw a shimmer of victorious arrogance pass across Malfoy's face.

Ron turned and stalked out of the room without another word, shrugging off Hermione's hand as she tried to stop him; he ran down the stairs, away from the humiliation and the sheer, renting pain of betrayal, and defeat.

They all stared after Ron; even when only the open doorway and the darkened corridor gaped back at them, and the sound of his footsteps faded away, an uneasy silence closing in once more. Hermione looked at the two boys, still bewildered; Harry let out a soft groan and shielded his palm over his eyes, rubbing his temples ruefully.

"Now what?" Hermione sounded frustrated.

"Why don't you come up with something, Granger?" Draco answered; they both started slightly, and turned to him. He gave Hermione a thin smile, and added, "Since you have all the good ideas."

Hermione looked enraged; she opened her mouth to retort, but Harry interrupted.

"Draco." He glanced briefly at the blond boy as he spoke the single word in a low, quelling tone.

To Hermione's surprise, Draco fell quiet, and did not snipe back; instead, he strolled over to a large wooden trunk (which now, when she thought about it, seemed strangely familiar), and sat down on the lid. He gave her a defiant look, then turned away; but Hermione saw that Draco's gaze soon strayed over to Harry, who was staring down at his own hands, looking thoroughly vexed.

"What exactly happened back there?" Hermione inquired, her voice gentle but firm.

Harry looked up at her wearily, and was about to speak when Draco cut in first. "Leave him alone."

"Shut up, Malfoy, I'm not talking to you," Hermione snapped, her eyes flashing as she whirled to face him. "I think you've caused enough trouble for the next century, and probably the worst thing you could do to all humanity is make yourself immortal. So shoveoff."

Harry's eyebrows shot up, and he looked at Hermione with surprise. Even Draco flinched ever so slightly, perhaps seeing the trademark flare of anger in Hermione's eye — which the last time he'd seen it, had culminated in a very sound slap across his face. He subsided, simmering.

Hermione looked grimly satisfied and turned back to Harry.

"What happened?" she repeated, her tone softening as she saw the depths of anguish and uncertainly that burned in his eyes of liquid green.

There was a long pause; no one spoke, as both Hermione and Draco looked at Harry in anticipation. The seconds ticked by, and the air grew still and weary of the suspense; but Hermione waited, and Draco's keen eyes never slipped away from Harry.

Finally, Harry spoke; his voice was filled with turmoil, tortured by a great dilemma.

"I can't," he said softly, dropping his gaze, studying the random swirls of dust and footprints that scattered across the wooden floor — his and Draco's making, of course.

It was hard to imagine that the two simple words that fell from Harry's lips could have such a congruent effect on the two very different people who stood before him. Hermione looked disappointed, and then worried, although she held back from asking further; Draco simply looked away, although in his eyes there was a fleeting sadness.

"I just can't explain it." Harry's eyes were filled with pain as he raised them to look briefly first at Draco, then Hermione. "I have — I have to go now. I'm really sorry."

Harry moved towards the open doorway; his footsteps were leaden, almost numbed as if he was walking in a dream planted in reality. He pushed his unruly fringe out of his eyes as he stepped across the threshold; but Draco's voice behind him drew him to a halt.

"Where are you going?" Draco asked.

Hermione bristled, and glared at him. "It's none of your business where Harry's going," she hissed.

Harry paused, and glanced back at them.

"To try and make things better," he said wanly.

Then he turned, and left; no one said anything to stop him. Nothing in the storage room stirred; for a moment, the sheer uneasiness of the atmosphere held things in a strange balance of silence and stillness. But as always, Draco moved, the first to make things change.

"What is he going to do to make things better?" he asked.

"He's going to look for Ron, you nitwit," Hermione replied, patience thin in her voice.

"To snuff him out perhaps?" Draco sounded almost hopeful. "Weasels are related to moles, aren't they — can't get too careful there."

"Don't get smart with me, Malfoy." Hermione stalked towards Draco, where he still sat on the trunk (and now she remembered exactly what part that trunk had played in the grand scheme of things). She placed her hands on her hips, and glowered down at him. "I don't know what happened, but it's clear enough to me that you had everything to do with it."

Draco raised his eyes, and Hermione saw that they were once again clear: no longer was there a shroud of hidden pain veiling his irises of stormy grey. Now defiance rose in place, although the malice that used to stir in them was still absent. It was strange to behold, almost surreal; it seemed to Hermione that Draco had changed, and yet he hadn't.

"What did Ron see?" she asked, her voice controlled.

"I don't know," Draco replied, without missing a beat. "I don't plan to take on squint-eyed tunnel vision just to imagine what Weasley saw through those beady eyes of his."

Hermione lost her temper.

"Draco Malfoy!" she shouted, now beyond caring who heard her. "You are going to tell meexactly what happened back there, what Ron saw that made him so upset, and what cursed part you had in this whole mess — RIGHT NOW!" She whipped out her wand in a flourish, and brandished it threateningly at Draco. "Unless of course, you're interested in bringing the white-coated ferret look back in fashion, in which case I'd gladly oblige."

Draco stiffened, and eyed Hermione's wand warily; he had no doubt that she would have mastered Mad-Eye Moody's ferret spell by now, having topped McGonagall's advanced transfiguration class. He gave her a narrowed look; but with a very livid young witch behind the wand and a potentially humiliating spell hanging over his head, he thought better of it.

"This is what happened," Draco said slowly; his voice hazed over slightly, as if he was being drawn back into the vivid memories. "Harry and I were talking. I kissed him, once. And then..." he paused, and bit his lower lip. "Then he kissed me back. And when he pulled away he started to say something, but Weasley came barging in — apparently he has an Invisibility Cloak, though it beats me how in the world his impoverished family came into possession of one of those."

"It's Harry's," Hermione said through gritted teeth. "One more word about Ron, and I'll give you a set of whiskers anyway. Now get on with it."

Draco looked mutinously at the wand pointed at him, and continued. "Weasley came in, stared at us, and then started hollering. Harry tried to calm him down, but it didn't work — then you joined the party. That's all there is to know."

"Why?" Hermione shook her head in sheer exasperation. "Why did you have to kiss him again, Malfoy? I toldyou it was a bad idea for you two to meet up alone, but you insisted you just had to talk to him —and now look what's happened!" She paused, her eyes blazing. "Do you even care about Harry? Do you ever plan to leave him alone?"

There was a pause; the air was tense with hostility, but the silence was also pondering. Draco stood up, and dusted off his jeans; he was calm and unruffled as always, although Draco's hand quivered ever so slightly as he swept his hair away from his eyes, and looked levelly at Hermione.

"Yes," he finally answered quietly, deliberately. "Yes, I do."

"You do, what?" Hermione demanded; but Draco had already gracefully shouldered past her, and walked out through the door; he was gone.

To Harry, Ron had always been an easy person to find. Apart from the fact that he was tall, with a head of flaming red hair, Ron was alwaysthere, somehow; this thought struck him with a deep pang. Harry realised how Ron had stayed by his side, even in the most difficult of circumstances, giving him a heartfelt kind of support.

Luckily for him, Ron was also very predictable. Or so Harry hoped, as he sped out into the open Quidditch field. The cold wintry air stung his skin like icy needles. Looking up at the night sky was like gazing into a black lake, and the feeble twinkle of stars was a silver glimmer in the depths. The field glowed a strange, earthly dark green; like a verdant island caught in a sea of deeper shade all around. Around it, the tall spectator stands loomed, high and stark towers piercing the black sky.

Please let Ron be here, Harry willed fervently, shivering as he ran. He has to be. Where else would he go?

His heart leapt as he caught sight of a shadow against the backdrop of darkness, lingering by the edge of the field; the faint starlight picked out the head of red hair in a dull shimmer of colour.

"Ron!" Harry called out, putting on a fresh burst of speed as he hurried over; when he neared, Ron turned at the sound of his name; but he said nothing, even though the intense feeling of hurt emanated from him like dark red waves, stained by the blackness all around.

"I can explain," Harry was breathless as he finally drew to a halt in front of him. "Just hear me out a moment, Ron, please. I didn't mean to hide anything from you, you have to believe that."

"Oh, sure," Ron's voice was icy, more bitter than the gnawing wind that blew. "I can understand that, Harry — it's easy to see how a relationship with Malfoy, of any sort at all, could have accidentally slipped out of our conversation. I mean, I only see you all the time everyday."

"Listen," Harry tried again. "What you saw between me and Malfoy just now — it's really not what it seems."

"Not what it seems?" Ron exploded. "Harry, you had your hands around his waist. Didn't seem much room between the two of you for ambiguity, but hey, let me know if I'm reading too much into things."

"Ron," Harry said in despair. "Look, will you just give me a chance to explain?"

"What is there to explain, Harry?" Ron almost shouted; even in the wavering moonlight, Harry could see his friend's face contorted in anger and pain. "Why is there suddenly so much to talk about between you and me, when you never cared to say a word before? When I had to find out about your secret business with Malfoy from this!"

Ron took something out of his pocket and hurled it in front of Harry; it struck Harry's foot lightly before it fell on the grass with a gentle rustle.

Then something else suddenly dawned on Ron. "Did Hermione know?" he asked abruptly. "Because she seemed awfully calm about it, more than the usual Hermione-calmness." His voice grew harsh. "Did you tell her? Did you?"

"Yes." Harry said in a choked voice; a word never seemed so hard to force out of his mouth.

A darker shadow of anguish and shock passed over Ron's face, and seemed to disappear, as if absorbed into him; he took a step back, and gave a humourless laugh.

"That's great, Harry," he said softly, his voice slicing the crystalline night air like a knife. "So it seems like everyone is in the loop, and you just conveniently forgot about me. I'll be that all the time you two were whispering away in a corner, you were chattering merrily behind my back about me."

"We werenot talking about you," Harry forced himself to speak levelly. "We were talking about Malfoy, and what to do about... this big problem that we had on our hands. And the reason I didn't tell you was because —I wanted to protect you." In his mind Harry knew that the major reason was that he knew Ron would overreact spectacularly, as he had already amply proven; but he simply added, "And I didn't want you to get involved."

"Get involved in what?" Ron demanded.

Harry hesitated; then looking at the drawn, grim expression on Ron's face, he decided that now was the time to get it out in the open, once and for all. He was sick and tired of sneaking around, hiding things; and he knew that he owed Ron this much.

And so Harry told Ron the truth, in its unbelievable yet achingly true entirety: how he and Draco had become bonded under the spell of the love potion, which decreed that Draco would be in love with him; how they had met regularly in the desperate race against time to reverse the effect of the potion; and how he had asked Hermione for help.

"Malfoy told you all that." Ron's voice was flat.

Harry nodded. "Yeah, he did."

"And youbelieved him?" Ron said sharply; he shook his head in disbelief. "Since when did Draco Malfoy's word become worth throwing your common sense out of the window?"

"You don't understand, Ron," Harry said earnestly.

"That's right, Harry." Ron folded his arms across his chest; his jaw was set, and his eyes were dark. "I'm still not even beginning to understand why you would do this — and 'because Malfoy said so' does not count as a lousy excuse."

"I'm not trying to make excuses," Harry said tiredly. "I'm just trying to explain things to you, that's all. If you'll even hear me out."

"Oh, I hear you all right." Ron said, his voice hard and unyielding. "I even saw you, too, and seeing is believing." He took a deep breath. "But what I can't quite comprehend is why. Why would you even believe such a ridiculous story? Why can't you see that Malfoy was just trying to cause a rift in our friendship? And why did you choose to stand by him, instead of me?"

"He was suffering, Ron!" Harry protested, desperation in his voice. He was starting to feel as if he was shouting down an endless well — that all his words were lost in the tunnel of emptiness, vanishing without an echo. "He was in constant pain, and I saw it with my own eyes. And I saw the way I could heal him — he may not have been the trustworthiest person up until now, but he was telling the truth about the love potion. I'm sure of it. There's no other way..."

"But since when did it bloody matter to you?" Ron retorted. "I don't recall you getting upset when Mad Eye Moody turned Malfoy into a ferret, or when he got a nasty cocktail of curses from us on the Hogwarts Express a couple of years back. So what's the difference now?"

"Because..." Harry's voice faltered, and glazed over with emotion before he finally choked out, "because now... maybe I do care about him, after all."

There was a dead silence; the ominous hissing of the trees of the Forbidden Forest could be heard on the wings of the wind, even from a fair distance away. Between starlight and dark fields, the air was still: tense, unbroken.

"I don't believe this!" Ron finally exclaimed; he turned and sprinted away into the darkness, in the general direction of the school building.

Harry didn't even try to stop him. Dejectedly, he sat down in the grass and rested his head in his hands, silhouetted against the night, with pale quivers of light falling balefully down upon him.

He remained there for a long time; he didn't know how much time had passed, except that his limbs became stiff from the cold and exhaustion, and everything else. He stretched, trying to get some feeling back into his joints; and as he did, his fingers brushed against something on the grass.

It was the object that Ron had flung at him. Harry realised that it was a piece of paper, crushed into a ball; he picked it up and smoothed out the creases, and was struck anew with a dart of hollow pain. It was the note Draco had written him, asking him to meet in the Astronomy Tower: the start of everything that had fallen apart since then.

Slipping the paper into his pocket, Harry got up with a heavy sigh. He started to make his way back towards the school building, which stood in the distance, brightly lit like a cheerful landmark in the darkness all around. But it brought him no comfort.

As Harry trudged back towards Gryffindor Tower, Hermione suddenly appeared in front of him. She looked pale and ashen, although her cheeks were flushed as if from running; her eyes widened with relief and fearful excitement when she saw him.

"Harry!" she squealed urgently. "We've been looking all over for you! Listen — oh, no, Harry— everything's a horrid mess now, but first of all you should know that —"

"Ah, Miss Granger — I thought you might be the first to find our elusive celebrity tonight." Snape's silky voice sliced the air before his formidable figure loomed behind them; they both started, and Hermione broke off in mid-sentence. Snape smiled smoothly at them, and added, "What are friends for, after all?"

Harry took a step backwards; he knew that something was wrong. He looked at Hermione, bewildered; in response, she only shrugged helplessly.

"Come with me, Potter," Snape seized him firmly by the shoulders and propelled him back down the stairs, heading swiftly in a direction that Harry soon realised led to Dumbledore's office.

"Where are you taking me?" Harry demanded even though he knew full well; he was recalcitrant even as Snape marched him forward. "What's going on?"

"I would have thought you would've known the hallways well enough by now, Potter," Snape said in a low, calm voice that simmered with antagonism. "Surely you have that confounded Map memorised in your head now, as well as refined experience in sneaking around in the middle of the night. You always have put yourself above the rules."

Harry fell silent. He twisted around to look at Hermione, who was trotting beside them, panting slightly to keep up with Snape's sweeping pace. She looked at him miserably and shook her head, indicating that now was not the time to talk. Harry's shoulders sagged, resignedly; he was confused and exhausted, and his brain was barely registering everything that was happening.

They reached the entrance to Dumbledore's office; Snape muttered the password under his breath, and the gargoyle sprang aside to let them in. They went up the spiral stone staircase, and drew to a halt outside the polished oak door. Snape rapped smartly, and then entered; Harry stopped in surprise when he looked around the circular room.

Inside, standing on opposite sides of Dumbledore's desk, were Ron and Draco. As Hermione slid into the room behind him and Snape closed the door. Harry certainly hadn't expected to be standing in an enclosed space with Ron, Draco and Hermione again within such a short time.

Dumbledore, who had been seated in his chair, now rose, and regarded Harry gravely. Snape, who had gone to stand behind Dumbledore, wore a strangely smug look, like that of a cat who was poised outside a mouse-hole, waiting to pounce.

"Hello, Harry," Dumbledore said; his voice was kindly, even though his eyes were troubled. "I'm aware that it's rather late to be holding a conference; but certain serious matters have been brought to our attention, and they cannot be left until the morning."

Harry glanced at Ron, questioningly, but the red-haired boy was not looking at him. Instead, Ron's hard eyes were fixed upon Draco, standing directly opposite him. Draco held his gaze evenly, matching him with effortless arrogance; the hatred between them was palpable.

"Ron has informed us that some unseemly plots are afoot," Dumbledore continued, carefully watching Harry's reaction and noting his confused silence. "He has made some charges, which we need you to confirm or deny before us all."

"Tell us, Potter," Snape spoke up suddenly; his voice was soft but sharp as the edge of a sword. "Do you recall having imbibed a love potion in the recent weeks? And answer the question plainly; there is no need to weave any colourful tales around it."

Harry looked at Snape, utterly stunned. "Wh-what?" he managed, in a shaky voice.

Snape's eyes sparkled with a malevolent light; but Dumbledore cut in before he could speak.

"What we're asking you is this," Dumbledore leaned forward, and looked straight at Harry. "Do you have any recollection of drinking a strange potion? Think hard and long before you give us your answer, Harry. Can you remember ever swallowing a love potion— even if only a vague shadow of the memory of it?"

Harry's eyes inadvertently cut towards Draco for a brief moment, but Draco was determinedly not meeting his gaze. He looked back at Dumbledore, and realised that the headmaster was watching him very carefully.

"No," Harry finally answered; his voice rasped on the edges of the word. "No, I don't remember having taken a love potion. Not at all."

"See!" Ron abruptly burst out; Harry turned to him, amazed. "Professor, I told you that —" But his sentence faded midway, as Dumbledore raised a hand to silence him, indicating that Ron was to let Harry continue speaking.

"Harry," Dumbledore looked solemnly at him. "I'm going to be very direct with my next question; and I want you to answer me Yes or No, after you think through it very carefully. Do you understand?" Harry nodded; Dumbledore paused, and looked even graver as he resumed speaking, slowly, every word of his weighted with meaning and significance.

"Do you recall Mr Draco Malfoy —this young man standing here on my left — giving you a love potion and making you drink it, either forcibly or willingly?"

"WHAT?" Harry blurted out, unable to contain his utter surprise; he hurriedly calmed down, although Dumbledore now looked at him with renewed curiosity at his violent reaction. Harry took a deep breath, and then shook his head firmly. "Of course not!"

"Can't you see, Harry!" Ron shouted. "He's warping your mind! He's making you believe that he's under the love potion, when it's actually you!"

"And how would I do that?" Draco suddenly spoke up, for the first time. "How would I make him believe anything? By my natural charm and powers of persuasion?"

"You've got some Dark spells on him!" Ron seethed. "Don't think you can fool me, Malfoy! I saw how easily you could throw off the Imperius Curse — you could very well know how to cast it, too!"

"Harry can shake off Imperius like water off a duck's back!" Draco retorted. "Don't you know that, Weasley? What's the matter — brain malfunctioned, again?"

"Maybe you used Memory Charms, then!" Ron yelled, refusing to back down.

"ENOUGH!" Dumbledore's voice boomed over the din; immediately Ron and Draco subsided, although still simmering. Dumbledore eyed them severely. "Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy, I am going to remind you both that this is not a corridor; it is my office. Hollering is not acceptable here. Matters will be resolved amicably as far as it is possible; failing which, the only one who is allowed to raise his voice is me."

"But Professor Dumbledore," Ron protested earnestly. "You have to believe me when I say that Harry hasn't been himself, of late. I see him everyday; I know him. He's been very... distracted, and I never quite knew exactly why — until tonight, when he told me about the love potion."

"But I never said that I was under a love potion!" Harry objected.

"Yeah, you said it was Malfoy," Ron said dismissively, "but can't you see how ridiculous that is? You aren't thinking for yourself, Harry!"

"Perhaps Miss Granger will be able to enlighten us," Dumbledore said unexpectedly.

Hermione jumped slightly at the mention of her name. Dumbledore turned to her kindly, and beckoned her forward; she stepped closer, and stood next to Harry.

"Miss Granger," Dumbledore asked calmly. "Have you noticed Harry behaving in a manner out of the ordinary, especially over the past fortnight?"

Everyone turned their eyes to Hermione, even Draco. Hermione glanced nervously around, although she quickly controlled herself, and looked back at Dumbledore.

"No," she finally said, in a small but steady voice. "I didn't notice anything different about him. Harry's been busy with Quidditch and things — but he hasn't been acting weird at all."

Harry exhaled a tiny sigh of relief; Ron stared at Hermione, aghast.

"Well, Professor," Snape said, looking at the three Gryffindors in the room with distinct distaste. "It seems like there is a deadlock in this discussion, as I had anticipated. Potter seems too confused to be a valid source of evidence, yet he denies having consumed a love potion. But he confirmed affirmatively that Draco Malfoy, who has from the start emphatically disclaimed any involvement in this, had not given him a love potion. On the other hand, we have Weasley here, who brought up the whole matter in the first place: he asserts that Potter has been behaving strangely — more than ordinarily so." There was a smirk in Snape's voice. "However, Miss Granger does not agree, saying that she has not noticed any change in his behaviour."

Snape paused for dramatic effect. "I think there is more to this than meets the eye." He turned towards Dumbledore, and dropped his voice slightly, although his words were still audible in the stillness of the room. "Maybe now is the time when Veritaserum will come in useful once again."

"Yes, Veritaserum is an option," Dumbledore said simply. "But I would much rather the parties involved speak on their own accord, on their word of sworn truth." He looked at Harry. "So what is your final say on this matter, Harry? Or do you need some time to think about it?"

There was complete silence for the space of a few heartbeats; then Harry spoke.

"It is quite clear, Professor," Harry said, his voice quiet yet filled with resolve, "that Ron is mistaken. It must be a misunderstanding. There is nothing going on."

Ron's jaw dropped in shock at Harry's words; Draco's eyes flickered up ever so briefly, before he cast his gaze downwards again.

"Perhaps so," Snape said, stepping forward; he would not be denied so easily. "Far be it from me to doubt a Potter's word" — he spoke the name in a tone sliced with steel — "but here is one who is suspected of being involved in a love potion, and whose testimony does not corroborate with his close friend's: perhaps in this case, further verification is needed, to provide reasonable assurance that indeed nothing is amiss."

There was a long, thoughtful pause. Dumbledore's brow was furrowed, and he seemed to be pondering deeply. Finally, he raised his eyes and looked at the four students gathered around him, before his gaze settled on Ron.

"Ron," Dumbledore addressed him directly; Snape cut his narrowed eyes toward the redhead, as well. "On two occasions tonight, I have heard you mention that what Harry actually told you, verbatim, was that Draco had been under the spell of a love potion, and not Harry himself. Is that right?"

"Well, uh..." Ron hesitated, and looked hedged in. "Yes, that's what he said, but I knew it couldn't possibly be true..."

"Harry," Hermione hissed, taking the opportunity when Snape and Dumbledore were both listening to Ron. Harry glanced at her enquiringly; she continued in an urgent whisper, "There's something you have to know: the Anti-toxin potion didn't work."

"What!" Harry's voice was filled with horrified disbelief. "It didn't work?"

"No!" Hermione replied mournfully. "We weren't supposed to add the flowers of Sansevieria trifasciata; we were supposed to add the seeds.I managed to get into the Restricted Section just now, and I checked it out —"

"Did you tell Ron that, Harry?" came Dumbledore's voice; Hermione quickly moved away, and cleared her throat innocently as Snape fixed her with a suspicious stare.

"Uh, sorry?" Harry tried to mentally push aside the disturbing news Hermione just gave him; but to no avail. "I didn't quite catch your question, Professor."

"I was asking you what exactly you told Ron earlier tonight, while you were both talking on the Quidditch field," Dumbledore repeated, although he gave Harry a long, probing look, clearly having noticed his uncharacteristic lapse in concentration. "Did you in fact tell him that Draco Malfoy was under a love potion, and that you were frequently meeting him in secret to try and help him counteract it?"

"Yes." Harry's shoulders sagged in defeat; there was no point in lying now.

"And why did you tell him that?" Dumbledore inquired.

"Because..." Harry trailed off. This incessant questioning was starting to take a toll on him, especially since he did not have the truth to defend him; instead, he had to defend a secret that could not, at any costs, be revealed. If Dumbledore found out the truth, Draco would be in deep, deep trouble. And as he stole a glance at the Draco, Harry knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he could not let that happen.

"It seems that Mr Potter isn't quite sure of his story yet," Snape noted scathingly. "Perhaps we should discount the value of truth in his version, until he gets some of the finer details sorted out."

"I am not lying!" Harry glared at Snape, rash fire in his green eyes.

"No one accused you of that, Harry," Dumbledore said calmly. "All we are asking now is for you to give us the entire truth of the matter, without bias or prejudice. Then we will judge what we have heard. So tell us: did Draco ever inform you that he was under the spell of a love potion? Have both of you been meeting each other in secret, as Ron said were your very own words to him?"

The crisp rustle of Snape's flowing robes displaced the silence as the potions master shifted his weight, tapping his foot impatiently.

"Yes, I did say that; but no, I didn't mean..." Harry started, grasping at straws and feeling very foolish. "This had nothing to do with a love potion — Ron misunderstood what I was saying..."

"I have had enough of this, Headmaster," Snape said, sounding disgusted. "We have wasted precious time here, just listening to a lot of confused nonsense from students who clearly have something to hide, or otherwise are just too confounded to know any better. And now, we have to endure Potter's endless dithering about whether what he told Weasley was just some clever allegory that Weasley, in his literal-minded brain, had interpreted as a diabolical plot involving a love potion. I am fed up with all this — I propose we take decisive action to settle this matter once and for all."

Dumbledore sighed, although it was clear that he too was not satisfied with the contrary tale that had emerged. "As I said before, Veritaserum is a possibility; but I will only use it when it is imperative to do so."

"I'm not referring to Veritaserum," Snape's upper lip curled knowingly. "I have the perfect alternative. The poison in question here is a love potion, which cannot be detected by any Dark sensing spells — but there is one method that would work. The Revealing Tonic tells all secrets of unknown concoctions — and one of its special properties is that it will turn blue, then red and finally black, when a drop of sample mixture containing a love potion is added to it. A simple yet conclusive test."

Harry glanced at Hermione, alarmed; and he could tell from the expression on her face that she was regretting not having taken Advanced Potions. Draco's face was still stony and unreadable; Harry didn't look at Ron.

After a long thoughtful moment, Dumbledore finally agreed, albeit reluctantly. "Very well, Professor Snape. Since talking things out seems to have reached a dead end, it leaves us no choice but to take action to prove or refute the accusation that Mr Weasley has brought against Mr Malfoy."

The Headmaster paused, and looked at Harry over his half-moon spectacles with eyes that were sad, yet resolute. "Harry, you and Draco will follow Professor Snape to his potions classroom. He will then take a few drops of blood from both of you, and test it with the Revealing Tonic. We will see what the results show."

Harry closed his eyes, a helpless shudder going through him. But there was nothing more he could do: the issue was settled, and there was no use protesting, except to create further suspicion.

With his head bowed, Harry followed the potion master as he triumphantly swept out of the door; Draco walked close behind him. They dropped back a distance behind Snape — who seemed very eager to carry out this brilliant suggestion of his — and gradually fell into step together.

"Gee, Harry," Draco muttered at him, out of the corner of his mouth, "was this your idea of making things better? Then I really don't want to be around if anyone ever tells you, 'You're making it worse!'"

"It would've been a bigger disaster if I'd tried to lie, and you know it," Harry answered under his breath, sounding frustrated. "What did you expect me to say?"

"I don't know," Draco hissed back, "Perhaps you could have enlightened them on Weasley's history of psychiatric disturbances, and that he has been highly delusional since his owl ate up all his medicine at the start of this term."

"Very funny," Harry muttered dolefully. "Ron's not crazy."

"No, he's not crazy," Draco agreed, his eyes glinting darkly. "He's just hateful, which is much worse."

Harry had nothing to say in reply to that. They walked without speaking for a few moments, before Harry finally couldn't keep it in any longer.

"The Anti-toxin didn't work," he blurted out, unable to look Draco in the eye. "Hermione said that we added one of the wrong ingredients."

The other boy stopped dead in his tracks, and slowly turned to face him; seeing the look on Draco's face made Harry feel as if an anchor was dropped in the pit of his stomach. He bit his lip, and forced himself to meet Draco's eyes.

"What —did — you — say?" Draco's voice was constricted, and so hollow and devoid of feeling that it chilled Harry just to hear it.

Harry took a deep breath, and gave a helpless shrug.

"I'm sorry," he said honestly; and at that moment he wished that there was something he could do to make this horrible situation better, for Draco's sake. But the reality left little room for hope.

"Sorry isn't good enough, Potter." Draco shook his head, and there was a strange mix of emotions in his grey eyes — not anger, not resignation, more like realisation swiftly dissolving into pained indifference. And with that, Draco turned on his heel and strode after Snape.

Harry stared after Draco for a long moment, feeling utterly miserable; then he sighed, and followed the other two on the long trudge towards the Potions classroom.

Harry had endured a full five minutes of Snape's placid remarks as the Potion master had drawn a few drops of his blood from a pricked thumb. Truthfully he hadn't found it all that hard to bite his tongue to keep from answering Snape back, because he had been busy trying to make eye contact with Draco; but the other boy had determinedly averted his gaze. Draco had finished getting his blood sample taken first, and had left without waiting for Harry.

Now they were all gathered once more in Dumbledore's office, suffering the agonising wait for Snape to deliver the test results. Harry fought to contain the wild terror that chased through his mind; but his hands still trembled, and his heartbeat quickened as he heard Snape's heavy footsteps approaching along the corridor outside, like a harbinger of doom.

"I have the test results," Snape said rhetorically as he entered the room, achieving as much dramatic effect as he could with the sweep of his billowing robes. He gave them all a languid smile; Harry's heart sank. It was bad news if Snape was happy with the results.

"Very good," Dumbledore said, with a nod. "Please tell us what you have found."

Draco stared down at the ground fixedly; Ron seemed anxious, and for once he looked at Snape with a hopeful expression on his face; Hermione was nervous, worrying a stray thread on her cardigan in her hands. Harry closed his eyes; this was it.

"There is no sign whatsoever of any love potion," Snape announced; he gave Ron a nasty smile, and then turned his malevolent gaze towards Harry, who was frozen in shock. "However, there is evidence of residual alcohol traces in Mr Potter's blood sample —perhaps he might care to explain where he obtained the liquor."

There was a silence: Harry was still too dizzy with wild relief to speak, and even Hermione looked dumbfounded.

"I gave it to him." Draco said abruptly; Harry looked at him, surprised. Draco continued, "He was very stressed last night, so I gave him a drink of Butterbooze to calm his nerves."

"Oh, really," Ron said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Are you sure he wasn't very stressed because you were pressuring him into doing something he didn't want to do?"

"Weasley!" Snape barked, losing his temper. "This is getting ridiculously absurd, and highly wearisome! One more word from you maligning Mr Malfoy in such a manner, and you will scrub potion tables every weekend for an entire month. Your work in the potions classroom this evening was only mediocre —perhaps you will enjoy a chance to refine the skill."

Ron's face flushed with embarrassment, and he fell silent; only a person with a masochistic streak would dare venture another word after Snape's clear threat.

"Well, then," Dumbledore said soberly, "it seems like this matter has been put beyond a shadow of doubt, given the testimony of the Revealing Tonic, which does not lie. Mr Weasley, you must have been mistaken about your allegations, and we'll just chalk it up to a misunderstanding between you and Harry, which we'll leave you two to sort out."

Dumbledore paused, and looked at Harry; there was still a thoughtful expression in his eyes. "Mr Potter and Ms Granger, you are both free to leave —although, Harry, you might be better off staying away from Butterbooze until you are of age. Mr Malfoy, I wish to have a word with you about your alcoholic contraband."

Harry took a step backwards, feeling as if he was walking in a dream. Strangely, he felt no elation at this unexpectedly favourable outcome — even though the moment triumphed against all hope, he did not feel any jubilation. Glancing at Draco, the blond-haired boy would not meet his gaze; as Harry turned away, he locked eyes with Ron, and the desolate, injured expression in Ron's eyes stabbed him deeply.

"Ron," he called out hesitantly; but Ron just shouldered roughly past him, and stalked off down the corridor into the darkness.

"Don't try to talk to him now," Hermione advised, as she came up behind him. "I don't mean to be brutal, Harry — but I think you've hurt him enough, and you're the last person he wants to see now." She paused. "No, make that second-last. I think Malfoy has permanent claim on the bottom spot."

"What the hell just happened in there?" Harry asked softly; everything felt ethereal, as if thought and sense danced on the edge of his grasp. "The Revealing Tonic — it didn't find any love potion in Draco's blood. But the Anti-toxin..."

Hermione wisely led Harry away from Dumbledore's office, just in case Snape was lurking behind them. They made their way back to Gryffindor Tower, and as they drew near the portrait of the Fat Lady, Hermione abruptly pulled Harry aside, into a dark corner.

"I don't know for sure what happened just now," she said, speaking rapidly. "And I can't explain it, either — but I know where you can find the answer. I had a hunch that something wasn't right with the Anti-toxin potion — so I went and asked McGonagall for a note to the Restricted Section, on the pretext of taking on another Advanced Transfiguration term assignment. And there I found an updated listing of the Anti-toxin potion — that's how I knew that we used the wrong ingredients, but it was too late."

She paused to take a deep breath, and then continued. "But I found something else, too. While I was in the Restricted Section, I checked out the main concordance index for 'Love Potion' — and there was only one listing for that subject: a book on the Dark Arts shelf that was untitled."

Harry's jaw dropped. "Is it the same..."

"I think so," Hermione nodded. "I remember you saying that the book Draco brought was plain on the cover, with no title inscription. So Draco's book was right under our noses in the Restricted Section all along! Only that we never eventhought to look for it, since we assumed that since Malfoy's copy was so tattered, there wouldn't be any others available."

"What did the book say?" Harry asked urgently. "Did you read the page about Love Potions?"

"No," Hermione answered. "I didn't have the time to look in it — I had to rush out to tell you about the Anti-toxin potion as soon as I could. But the book's right there in the library, Harry — and I think the answers that you're looking for are in those pages. You've got your Cloak back now— you can go look it up."

"Oh damn!" Harry exclaimed in despair. "But Ron took it! Where is it now?"

Hermione bent down, and retrieved a neat bundle of shimmering fabric from where it was carefully stashed behind a pillar; she gave it to Harry with a proud smile, and relished the look of joy that spread across his face as he took the Cloak from her.

"Ron very carelessly left it in the storage room," she explained. "In all the excitement no one saw it lying on the floor — but I was the last one to leave, so I brought it back with me." She paused. "Now, you'll have to hurry — Snape won't be much of a threat, since he's still in Dumbledore's office. Just watch out for Filch. Remember — it's on the Dark Arts shelf. You've seen the book before; you should be able to find it. Be careful!"

"Thanks," Harry said; he rubbed his bleary eyes, and prepared himself for another sleepless night ahead.

It had been quite a while since Harry last stepped into the Restricted Section — even though he was a senior student, his extensive involvement in Quidditch left him little time (to supplement equally scarce inclination) to work on additional credit assignments that would warrant the use of the Restricted Section for research.

Walking under the familiar cover of his Invisibility Cloak, Harry remembered the first time he had sneaked into the Restricted Section — he had been in his first year, and the name on his mind had been Nicolas Flamel. There was a strange irony to him sneaking in once again, although this time for very different reasons.

He moved quietly, and with great care. He scanned the Dark Arts shelf with eager anticipation; there were few books in this shelf, compared to the wide range of Transfiguration and Charms references. Hogwarts evidently recognised the danger that lay in too much knowledge — that however good the initial intent, there was no assurance the lure of the dark arts could be resisted, once one knew too much about them.

He scanned the books, straining to make out the titles — and finally, his eyes fell upon a thin book with a spine devoid of any inscriptions. His heart skipped a beat; with trembling hands he took the book off the shelf. He held the book in his hands — it was the same one that Draco had shown him. He quickly leafed through it, searching for the page on Love Potions. This copy was in far better condition than Draco's — the pages were whole, thankfully, and the print was still clear.

But when Harry finally found the page he was looking for, his eyes could barely believe what they saw; and in his mind, the sheer realisation of the truth rose in his mind, like a terrible dawn.

The ingredients were listed, followed by the familiar quote,Traicit et fati litora magnus amor. And at the bottom of the page was the poem, in its completeness:

A chemical emotion, falsely real
The power to hurt, the power to heal
Only when induced love is returned
Is the mockery of the potion spurned.

Harry stared at the verse, and read it once more; and then, again. The meaning of the words blurred with reality: the same vicious cycle, the same imperfect rhythm. And finally, when the poem had run through his mind so many times that he could recite it without even looking at the page, Harry closed his eyes, and allowed himself to slump to the floor.

He'd been so earnest in his endeavours to help Draco find a way to get rid of the effect of the love potion, that he had never actually cast a thought to the possibility that, after some time, he hadn't really wanted Draco to be free of it. Not in the sense that he wanted to see Draco suffer — he truly didn't — but because he had secretly been reluctant to see him revert to the nasty, insufferable git he used to be.

He didn't want to let go of the Draco that he had come to know so intimately, in all senses of the word. In his mind, he saw a clear vision of those silver grey eyes devoid of contempt, which he had grown accustomed to seeing; set in a face of delicate, defined features, pale cheeks sometimes flushed with warmth born of desire, perfect lips curling in a sad but beautiful smile…

This Draco whom he had been in such close contact over the past couple of weeks was completely different from the person he had sparred with all these years. This person was heartbreakingly sincere and painfully human, whose feelings were raw and vivid and intense, fiercely passionate at times; someone who he had gradually grown to —

No.

He couldn't have.

It couldn't be, not even through these past turbulent days — Draco couldn't possibly have become someone that he had actually, truthfully, started to...

...to love.

13 Chances

The magic of love is the ignorance that it can ever end.

Harry sat on the floor of the Restricted Section for a long time, staring off at the darkened shelves with unseeing eyes, the book laid open next to him. His mind was reeling with an endless stream of thoughts, which were coherent one moment, and then fell apart the next. A tiny, furtive movement to his right caught his eye — Harry finally stirred, then sat up straight.

He strained in the dimness, until he realised that it was only a small brown spider, scurrying along the edge of one of the lower shelves. He relaxed, and leaned back against the wall. A wave of sadness washed over him as he thought of Ron once again. Every time a spider showed up in their dormitory, Ron would protest loudly until Harry took it outside. Now Harry's eyes followed the unconcerned spider as it spun a fine thread, and lowered itself to the floor; he did not obstruct its path. The spider scuttled into a shadowy corner, and then out of sight.

Harry picked up the book with a sigh, and decided to make the best of his stolen visit. After bookmarking the page on Love Potions, he browsed through the rest of the book, lingering with interest on the Loss of Substance potion — it was on the preceding page. Draco hadn't been lying, after all.

So was the distant iciness in Draco's voice not a lie, as well?

The next morning showed the true damage to the relationship between the two Gryffindor boys more starkly than ever. Harry discovered that the insidious tension was just as bad, if not worse, than Ron's fits of screaming rage the night before. That had been an explosion, which had to be faced and dealt with; but now, this cold hostility was like a thorn embedded deep, bringing an awful, nagging pain that would not go away.

Seamus, Dean and Neville sat up in their beds and watched in surprise as Ron strode out of the dormitory early that morning, slamming the door behind him. Shortly after, Harry got dressed and quietly slipped downstairs as well. As the door closed softly this time, the other three boys traded meaningful looks.

"Now, it seems that the Snog Appointment didn't go as well as planned," Seamus observed. "Ron looked as if he'd collided headfirst with a storm cloud."

"Agreed," said Dean, rolling his eyes. "If we ever need a volcano in the background for a school play, Ron would be the perfect human prop. Even got the flaming red on top of his head."

"What happened, d'you think?" Neville asked curiously.

"Well, judging from his hellish mood, Ron definitely didn't get much action," Dean answered.

"Maybe he got chanced upon and passionately mauled by Millicent Bulstrode?" Seamus suggested. "That'd really explain things. Though Harry's behaving rather suspiciously, so I reckon that he's got something to do with all of this. I wonder what..."

"Hermione was back in the common room rather late last night," Dean offered. "And Harry sneaked into the dorm even later."

"So who snogged whom, exactly?" Neville persisted.

"Aha," Seamus said, with a devious smile. "That, my friends, is for us to find out."

Once he left the boys' dormitory, Harry made his way down the stairs. At the back of his mind, he knew that Ron had gone out to the Quidditch field for some quiet time alone to himself. It was still far too early for breakfast, and no one else was up yet — but as he had expected, he found Hermione waiting for him in the common room. Her eyes were bright, but filled with worry.

"I just saw Ron go out through the portrait hole by himself," she told Harry, with an unhappy sigh. "But he didn't see me — I ducked behind an armchair when I heard him coming down the steps."

"Well, he refuses to even look at me, much less toss more than a grunt in my direction," Harry said. "I don't think there's anything I can do, Hermione. It seems like Ron isn't ever going to forgive me for what I did to him..." he trailed off, frowning slightly. "And I'm not sure I can easily forget how he tried to get Malfoy expelled by telling Dumbledore about the love potion. I mean, he went straight to the Headmaster and spilled everything I told him —"

"You do realise that Ron did it because he cares about you," Hermione cut in quietly, looking directly at Harry. "He wasn't doing it to spite you, or only to get revenge on Malfoy. If that had been his intention, he'd have told Dumbledore about how he found both of you in the storage room — you certainly weren't supposed to be there. But he never said a word about that."

Harry looked at Hermione, unable to find a reply; then something broke in his eyes, and his gaze dropped to the floor.

"Ron doesn't hate you, Harry," Hermione continued, with sympathy in her voice. "He probably hates Malfoy more than he hates spiders, yes — but you should know that what he did last night wasn't to get you into trouble. Even though it was a terrible move, which had potentially disastrous consequences for you and Malfoy — but I think Ron truly believed that Malfoy had you under some sort of spell, and he couldn't just stand by and do nothing about it."

"Draco could have been expelled because of that," Harry said intensely, raising his eyes once again; they were filled with confusion and turmoil. "As it is now, I trust that Dumbledore and Snape have the common sense to keep this whole matter under wraps. But if it had been proven true, they wouldn't have been able to hush it up — and Draco's father would have gotten wind of it!"

"But it wasn't proven true," Hermione answered, holding Harry's gaze steadily. "And I think you found out the reason why that happened." She paused, and then asked, "Care to share with me what you read in the Restriction Section last night?"

Harry closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging at the mention of the book and its contents — the poem echoed in his mind, each word blazing with terrible truth, bleeding into his consciousness. With a quivering voice, he repeated the poem: as if he were speaking from a delirious dream, each syllable painfully dredged up from the very depths of his soul.

Hermione looked at Harry in stunned silence after he finished reciting the poem in its entirety. Several moments passed before she finally spoke; her voice was low, full of amazement and wonder.

"It all makes such perfect sense now!" She shook her head self-deprecatingly. "I need to check up on a couple of things first — but I cannot believe I never thought of this before. How simply ingenious."

Harry looked at her, bewildered. If there was one thing this love poem was, it certainly wasn't 'perfect sense.' In fact, it was the most imperfect potion he had ever come across, beginning with the very premise of its mistaken concoction. As for any semblance of sense, Harry could not remember a time in his life where he had wandered about, so utterly confused and at a total loss as to what to do.

"Sorry," Harry finally said, "but did you say 'perfect sense' and 'simply ingenious'? Because I just need that little confirmation that I've completely lost my mind."

Hermione gave him a wry smile. "All right, why don't you tell me what you understand this poem to mean? It's pretty important how this poem is interpreted, given that it explains how the potion actually works."

"Well..." Harry thought for a moment; a twisting ache churned in his stomach as his mind turned to the potion, and Draco. It hurt even to think, much less put his sentiments into words. He tried to sound nonchalant, "I just reckoned it meant that the effect of the potion goes away by itself after it has successfully managed to scramble people's emotions beyond recognition."

Hermione cracked an amused grin. "Well, that's one way of putting it."

"Is it?" Harry gave a short, humourless laugh. "Well, as if Ron giving me the cold shoulder weren't enough, Draco's not speaking to me, either. Before Snape came back with the results, I told Draco that the Anti-toxin potion we made didn't work — and he just froze up, and told me that sorry wasn't good enough."

"You apologised?" Hermione said incredulously. "You have nothing to apologise for!"

Harry was quiet for a while. "Actually, I do," he finally answered in a soft voice. "He trusted me; and when I told him that the Anti-toxin potion was our best bet, he believed me."

"And you didn't let him down," Hermione said staunchly. "The bottom line is: he's no longer under the spell of the love potion. Snape's test proved that beyond the shadow of a doubt." She paused, and lowered her voice. "Now, the question that remains is, exactly how you cured him of it."

Harry closed his eyes, still clinging to the last vestiges of denial; it was too hard to admit it, not even to Hermione. "Maybe there was actually some effectiveness in the Anti-toxin..."

"Are you in love with him, Harry?" Hermione asked unexpectedly.

"What!" Harry's eyes flashed open and he stared at her, caught completely off-guard. "What do you mean...?"

"You know what I mean," Hermione answered deliberately. "And only you can answer this, Harry — do you really care about Draco, enough to break the power of the love potion over him?"

There was a brief, expectant silence. A flurry of anguished emotions flitted across Harry's face, as he was caught in a great internal struggle between what he wanted to believe as truth, what he wanted to make into reality... and, what he simply just wanted.

"I don't know," he whispered desolately.

"Whatever you do, Harry, don't look for Malfoy," was Hermione's last admonition as they parted ways. She was off to her Advanced Transfiguration class, and Harry was off to spend some dismal time alone with his muddled thoughts. What a welcome prospect, Harry thought darkly as he rounded a bend... and walked straight into Draco.

Harry stopped in his tracks. So much for Hermione's warning. It seemed trouble constantly followed him under the guise of Draco Malfoy. He stared at Draco for a long moment, trying to figure out what was different about the blond boy. His mind registered a blank, although his instincts sensed otherwise.

"You're not doing a very good job at avoiding me," Draco remarked, surveying Harry with a critical eye that betrayed nothing.

Harry found himself sorely lacking an answer. Draco's last words to him the night before echoed in his mind: Sorry isn't good enough, Potter.

"What happened, Draco?" Harry finally asked quietly. Pretences were useless now. "Tell me the truth."

Something flitted across Draco's expression — like a ripple across still waters, or the shadow of a passing cloud. Then it was gone, and Draco's voice was cold as the depths of a winter lake. "It doesn't matter anymore, Potter."

"Yes it does," Harry said fiercely, stepping forward. "You can't just pretend the last two weeks never happened."

"Why not?" Draco met Harry's eyes evenly. "It's a perfectly good explanation for something that should never even have happened in the first place."

Harry could not stop himself from blurting, "Was that all it was to you?"

"It was never meant to happen, Harry." Draco's voice held steady.

"But it did."

"Yes." Draco's eyes flickered away for the briefest of moments. "There was nothing we could've done about that. But now we both got what we wanted. It's over with. So let it go."

Draco made to leave, but Harry caught him by the arm. The physical contact, even though insulated by Draco's sleeve, was electric. Draco's eyes snapped up to Harry, and the sharpness in them melted for but a moment before freezing over again.

"You know what, Draco?" The intensity in Harry's voice startled them both. "This isn't a dream that you can just push to the back of your mind and forget about. Something happened to make that potion go away, something—" Harry broke off, and drew a deep breath. "Something between us. Don't you want to find out what it is?"

Draco looked at Harry for a long moment — and Harry felt himself being drawn into those eyes of pale grey, which flickered like a silver flame kindled from stone. Finally, Draco spoke.

"You know what, Potter?" The flame in his eyes spilled an undercurrent of feeling beneath words otherwise so cold that they chilled Harry's heart. "I really don't care."

Something in Harry's stunned look must have made Draco's expression soften ever so slightly.

"Look," Draco said, running his hand through his light fringe and pushing it out of his eyes with a careless sweep. "I know Granger probably told you to stay away from me. Let me help you out with that."

Draco gracefully sidestepped Harry, and strode down the corridor without a backward glance. And as Draco walked away, Harry finally realised what had changed.

Draco was himself again.

"We have got to find out what's going on with them," Seamus whispered, as they watched Ron walk into the common room and disappear straight up the stairs to the dormitory, without even the merest glance at Harry, who was sitting just a few tables away. Seamus gave an exaggerated sigh. "All this sneaking around is driving me absolutely crazy!"

"Seems to bug you a great deal, Seamus, considering it's none of your business in the first place," Dean tried to be fair, although his own curiosity was gradually getting the better of him, too.

Seamus gave him a long-suffering look. "Inquiring minds need to know."

"All right, if it's really holding a fire under your arse, then go play sleuth," Dean suggested. "Just be discreet."

"Right," Seamus said, satisfied, and got to his feet. He sauntered casually over to where Harry was sitting, staring at an open Potions book in front of him and generally appearing to be tuned out to the rest of the world.

"Hey, Harry," Seamus greeted. "I was just sitting over there, and I couldn't help but notice you haven't turned the page for about half an hour. Snape favour you with an exam tip that you could share?"

Harry distractedly glanced up from his book. "Uh, no, Seamus — I was just thinking about something else."

"Knut for your thoughts?" Seamus said brightly. "I'll give a Sickle for additional sordid details, and Galleon if it's got anything to do with you, McGonagall and a bath tub, at the same place and time."

Harry cracked a tired smile. "No, I don't really want to talk about it. You can save your money."

"So what's up with you and Ron, hmm?" Seamus asked.

"Seamus," Dean groaned, coming over. He glanced apologetically at Harry, and then eyed the Irish boy severely. "If this is your idea of being subtle..."

"But seriously, Harry!" Seamus persisted, ignoring Dean. "You and Ron have been acting strangely for the entire day, and we — as your concerned roommates — would like to know if a state of war has been declared in our dormitory. Are you two fighting over Hermione or something?"

"I thought we ruled out that possibility!" Dean hissed under his breath. "You're wasting valuable questioning time!"

"No, Hermione has nothing to do with this," Harry said firmly, and got to his feet. "Look — I'm sorry that I can't tell you more, but it's really for the best not to get other people involved. Don't worry, things will be fine."

Harry headed toward the portrait hole, and disappeared through it. Seamus watched Harry flee with a gleaming eye. Dean watched the portrait door swing shut, and then turned to his sandy-haired friend with a sigh. "Brilliant job, Sherlock."

"I know, I thought I was pretty good myself," Seamus answered. "Quick, and straight to the point."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Sarcasm, just like subtlety, is always lost on you."

"Naw, Harry let slip a couple of things without even knowing it," Seamus said triumphantly. "And luckily, my sheer brilliance ensured that these clues did not pass by unnoticed. There's obviously someone else involved, and it's not Hermione. I don't think it's even anyone from Gryffindor — it's clear that the only person he's avoiding in here is Ron, and Harry is taking an awful lot of quiet walks off by himself."

"Really?" Dean sounded reluctantly impressed. "So who is it?"

"I haven't got that far yet," Seamus said; his expression grew enigmatic. "But I'm thinking that maybe Harry and Malfoy are having a clandestine affair, and Ron found out — which explains his huffy mood because it's not fair that his best friend and his worst enemy are both getting some action, not to mention with each other."

Dean's eyeballs bulged out of their sockets. "Seriously!" he sputtered, staring at Seamus in utter amazement. "You really think so?"

Seamus dropped his mysterious voice, and broke into a broad grin.

"Of course not, you silly cow! You won't even be able to pull that off on April Fool's," he said, and crowed with laughter. "Harry and Malfoy, honestly! No one's ever going to fall for that." He paused. "Although they'd make quite a cute couple, come to think of it."

"Cute?" Dean snorted. "Bunny-rabbit type of cute, or 'oh look! we can see the pretty stars through the large hole blown through our ceiling!' type of cute?"

Seamus tilted his head, and thought for a moment. "Impossibly cute."

Harry was glad that, in a topsy-turvy world where change was the only constant, there were still a few things that could be counted on — one of them was that the far corner of the library rated as one of the most likely places to find a certain Hermione Granger.

"This place is impossible," Harry grumbled, as he flung himself on the chair opposite Hermione, who barely looked up from the parchment she was scribbling on. "Seamus clearly has nothing better to do than notice Ron's and my every move." It took a moment for Harry to notice what was odd — there were no books spread across the entire span of the table. "What are you doing?"

"Figuring out the love potion with a method we should have used right from the start," Hermione replied, finally glancing up at him. "Common sense."

"Right," Harry said dully. "Does that come bottled? Because I think I threw that out the window the night I hung around with Draco Malfoy on the edge of the Forbidden Forest."

"You know," Hermione went on, "all this time we've been so caught up with the technical aspects of the composition of the love potion and what sort of toxin it might be, that we totally forgot to think about how the love potion was meant to work in the first place. What it was intended to do." She shook her head in frustration. "We spent our time hacking away at the branches of the poisoned tree, but never thought to go straight for its roots."

"So what have you got there?" Harry asked, nodding wearily at Hermione's notes.

Frankly, he wasn't so sure that he actually wanted to know. He didn't need to know any more about the wretched love potion. He didn't care about how it was supposed to work, what it was meant to do... the one thing he did care about, was why he was hurting so much because Draco just wanted to move on with life. Wasn't that what he had wanted, too?

"Okay," Hermione said, setting her notes down on the table and tackling the issue the way she always addressed things — perfectly logically. "First, consider the purpose of a love potion. Why would a person give someone else a love potion to drink, under normal circumstances?"

"To fall in love with that someone else," Harry responded. Even as he spoke, his own words struck a pang through his heart. The irony stung like acid on a fresh wound.

"That's right," Hermione nodded. "But your situation was clearly different. Draco's consumption of the love potion was an accident. He never meant to concoct that, and your presence was equally coincidental. So what would the altered course of events likely lead to? How does this change the way the love potion affects both of you?"

"Hermione," Harry groaned, clutching his head. "You have got to stop answering me by asking more questions. You must understand that my brain is fragmented enough as it is."

"All right, all right," Hermione said impatiently. "Let's not try to make you think for yourself, then."

"Yeah," Harry said softly, almost to himself, "that's something I stopped doing a long time ago."

Hermione eyed him with a mix of sympathy and worry, and then continued. "Okay, this is how I see it. The purpose of a love potion is to make someone else — the unfortunate victim — fall in love with the one who made the potion. The victim drinks the love potion, and the first person he sees would be the one who made the potion."

"And he would fall in love with him," Harry added.

"Yes. The victim would think that he's in love with this person." Hermione paused. "If the victim is clever and strong-willed enough, he would know he is under a love potion spell — like Draco did. The rational part of his mind would know that the romantic attraction isn't real, although he can't help it at all. Follow me so far?"

"I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop," Harry said.

"You won't have to wait long. Like every story, the tale of a love potion has a devious twist to it." Hermione's expression grew sober and grave. "Love potions are an advanced form of Dark Magic. Even though they claim to serve the ends of evil ones, power often comes at a price — often a clever little double-cross that backfires on the one who casts the spell. Many Dark wizards and witches have fallen prey to their own devices, and perished of their making. The love potion is not meant to be a no-strings-attached ticket to conquering, by devious coercion, the love of one's life."

"What's the catch, then?" Harry asked. "It seems pretty foolproof to me. And I might add that it sounds awfully creepy, the way you describe the love potion — it seems to have a mind of it's own. It's freaky."

"It doesn't have a life of its own," Hermione said earnestly. "But what it does do is try to control something that is a mind unto itself, that cannot be compelled to the will of anyone — and that something is love." She took a deep breath. "For someone to cast a love potion on another person, he cannot possibly, truly, love the supposed object of his affections. It's more of a dark obsession, with the sole purpose of gaining something that should only be given, willingly — a cruel, unscrupulous means to manipulate the heart of someone else, to induce a false love."

Realisation came like a draught of icy winter chill against Harry's face, stinging like needles of frost. "So I was in the role of the caster of the spell, and Draco was the victim," Harry said slowly, as the pieces slowly began to scatter into place.

Hermione nodded. "Exactly. 'The power to hurt, the power to heal.' He was in love with you, Harry, and you were able to control his emotions, even subconsciously — that was how you upset his balance and caused him to fall during that Quidditch match, even though you didn't intend to."

"But why..." Harry felt his voice grow thick, "why did things change all of a sudden?"

"Because you changed," Hermione answered. "You actually fell in love with Draco — and that's when the love potion's backstabbing mechanism stepped in. It will only function as long as there is no true emotion involved. But as soon as the 'induced love' of the victim 'is returned' by the caster of the spell, then only is 'the mockery of the potion spurned,' and it disappears entirely. The caster of the spell is left with true feelings of love, but the victim is no longer bound to him. A sort of warped justice, in the end." Hermione paused. "Or maybe it's just because love — real love — is something so pure and beautiful, that no Dark spell can ever lay claim on it. That's why the potion was rendered useless."

Harry sat silently, unable to think of anything to say in reply, not even knowing what he wanted to say. Thoughts gushed through his mind like waters rushing over the edge of a broken dam, and there was nothing he could do to stop it, or make sense of what he was thinking. The only thing he knew was that it was true beyond the shadow of a doubt: he loved Draco.

And now, he had lost him.

Noticing Harry's lack of response, Hermione resumed speaking. "Also, love potions are banned by the Ministry. Likely, they would have done extensive research before, to find a cure for it — but love potions are known to be incurable, except by death. Even Malfoy admitted that early on, and given his likely ample knowledge of the Dark Arts from his father's library of Dark materials —"

"Draco's different from his father." Harry blurted out, his voice quivering. "He's not fundamentally evil, and he doesn't use Dark spells to hurt anyone else." He paused, and then added softly, "Just himself."

"Not just himself," Hermione said firmly. "The point is, we already knew that love potions couldn't be cured by any magical means. I guess we just hoped against all hope that we could find a way around it. But in retrospect, a simple Anti-toxin potion wouldn't have been the solution, or someone before would have recognised it — I mean, we're only still in school, we hardly know everything."

Harry wanted to add that if Hermione couldn't have done anything, no one else had a snowball's chance in hell of figuring it out; but he just settled for, "And you came up with all of that by yourself?"

"Of course." Hermione grinned. "I'm a girl."

Harry couldn't suppress a wry smile. Some humour served to make him feel slightly better. "That's becoming a handy excuse. 'Why can't you carry the buckets of water to Herbology class?' 'Because I'm a girl.' 'Why can't you open the bottle caps with your nails?' 'Because I'm a girl.' 'Why are you so damned smart?' 'Because I'm a girl.' "

"Oh, Harry," Hermione said, "you're smart too, and so special in other ways as well. Remember what I told you when we were going to rescue the Philosopher's Stone, back in the first year? Books! Cleverness! There are more important things in life." She smiled at him. "Do you still remember?"

Harry nodded wordlessly, feeling a lump the size of a Chocolate Frog form in his throat. Of course he remembered. And he couldn't help but remember Ron as well — the way Ron sacrificed himself just so that Harry could pass through the giant chess set. It ached like a poisoned dart lodged deep within him, to think of how his friendship with Ron seemed to have been shattered beyond repair.

"So what am I supposed to do now?" He hated how much at a loss he was. It was terrifying not to know what to do, not to have complete control over how he felt; helpless to ignore what his heart told him when his mind screamed otherwise. Harry began to truly understand how much Draco must have suffered, trying to keep his emotions under wraps when they constantly threatened to spill over.

The only difference was, Draco had the excuse of a love potion. Harry didn't.

Hermione could see the turmoil that her friend was in. She reached out and touched Harry's shoulder lightly.

"There's nothing you can do now," she said gently. "You just have to let go. Get on with your life, Harry. Forget Malfoy."

But deep down inside, Harry knew that this was the one thing he could not do.

If talking to Draco had been hard, deliberating with himself was worse. Harry spent a sleepless night tossing and turning in bed, wondering if it was a good idea to approach Draco to talk things out — and asking himself exactly what he expected from such a meeting. That, he couldn't even answer.

The next day, as he lounged in the common room accomplishing a grand total of nothing at all, Harry finally decided that not talking to Draco was giving him more mental anguish than any possible outcome of doing so. It was slowly driving him insane wondering what was going on in Draco's mind, hidden behind those calm eyes of storm-grey. And he decided that he would never be able to put the past behind him, not without first settling things with Draco once and for all.

"Right, Herm, I'm going for a walk," Harry said as casually as possible, heading towards the portrait hole.

Hermione looked up. "No, you're not. You're going to look for Malfoy, aren't you?"

The stricken expression on Harry's face was all the answer she needed. She made an irritated sound. "Harry, exactly what point do you see in clinging on to this whole thing? You're not making it any easier on yourself — or Malfoy, for that matter."

"How did you know I was going to look for him?" Harry grumbled mutinously, wondering if Hermione's intelligence had ascended to a level that gave her the ability to read minds.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "No one paces back and forth for ten minutes deciding whether or not to go for a walk."

"Your uncanny perception is getting really annoying," Harry shot back in a half-serious tone.

Hermione looked smug, before she sobered. "I don't suppose anything I say is going to change your mind."

"No, not really," Harry admitted. "Look, I just need some... closure to this whole thing. I've got to talk to Malfoy one last time, and bury this whole episode once and for all. That's it."

Hermione knew better than to take his words at face value. "You know, Harry, the last time someone promised me this same thing, it was Malfoy — and look what came out of that."

"Nothing's going to happen this time," Harry promised, recalling the way Draco had spoken to him the day before. "I'm pretty sure of that."

Hermione hardly looked convinced. "Well, if you say so. But for the record, I still think it's a bad idea. And what makes you think Malfoy wants to talk things over with you?"

"I'm not giving him a choice," Harry said determinedly. "He never gave me a choice about getting embroiled in the love potion with him at the start. So he sure as hell had better be there at the end of it. He owes me that much."

Hermione looked slightly surprised at the fervent tone of Harry's voice, and decided that it would be completely pointless even trying to reason him out of looking for Malfoy. Maybe it was better to just let him get it over with — get the closure he needed so that the wound could heal, with only a scar as a distant reminder of pain and blood. Things would never be the same again, but... at least the two boys' paths wouldn't be so helplessly entangled any longer.

"Oh, just go and do what you have to do," Hermione said, with a sigh. "But promise me that you won't meet him in the storage room. I have a bad feeling about that trunk."

Harry decided to hang around outside the Slytherin dungeons to wait for Draco instead of approaching him after class. For one thing, the chances of a fellow Gryffindor chancing upon them would be highly unlikely; also, Draco couldn't avoid him if he stationed himself at the entrance to the dungeons.

But the first person he met was Millicent Bulstrode, who waddled past him with as much pomp as she could muster. Millicent clearly hadn't got over her love for Harry being rejected in no uncertain terms in their fifth year. "Too warm, perched up in your little tower, Potter?" she said coldly. "Coming all the way here to cool down a little?"

Before Harry could answer, a drawling voice spoke up first. "No, he's just decided to grace our dark little dungeon with his illuminating presence."

Harry turned to see Draco standing a little way behind Millicent — which was probably the reason why Harry hadn't seen him coming in the first place. Stepping around Millicent's generous figure, Draco drew to a halt in front of Harry, and gave him an appraising once-over. Draco's gaze was calm and piercing, as if he were undressing Harry with his eyes. It made Harry feel exposed, and oddly titillated. A shiver ran up his spine.

"I need to have a word with you," Harry managed in a voice that quavered too much for his own liking.

Draco's eyes narrowed, although they did not look at all surprised. "What about?"

Harry gritted his teeth. Draco was being deliberately obtuse, and it didn't help that Millicent was watching their exchange with no small amount of curiosity. She was massive, but unfortunately not massively stupid — it wouldn't take long for her to suspect that something out of the ordinary was afoot.

"I need to speak with you about the Potions project," Harry said meaningfully, staring at Draco. "In private."

Draco stood for a moment, before he silently acquiesced. Stepping aside, he nodded down the shadowed corridor. "Let's go this way." Relieved, Harry followed him into a nearby classroom, which was empty and dark.

Closing the door behind them, Draco turned to face Harry. His expression was inscrutable in the dimness, and Harry was struck with how seductive the atmosphere was — silky shadows fell all around them, and a strangely warm air caressed the back of Harry's neck. Or maybe that was just him feeling flushed.

"Nice move, Potter," Draco said dryly. "Swooping down and snatching me right in front of my common room. You might have tried whacking me on the head with your big club and dragging me off, caveman style."

Harry sighed. "I just wanted to—"

"Talk?" Draco finished for him. "Yes, I realised — every time I look at you, you're always wearing this choked-up expression that says you're bursting to tell some news. But that's all right, I've got a couple of questions I wanted to ask you, too."

Harry looked surprised. "What?"

"Oh, I get to go first?" Draco gave him an infuriating smile. "I always knew you were a gentleman, Potter."

"Is this all just a joke to you, now?" Harry's patience was wearing thin; and more than anything else, he hated Draco's flippant attitude. "Let me tell you this, Draco — just because it's all fixed, doesn't mean there aren't any loose ends to tie up. And it doesn't mean that it can't all come apart again."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Draco snapped, the first ripple displacing his calm demeanour.

"I'm pretty sure you know what I want to talk to you about." Harry decided to take the direct approach. He was sick of going around in circles. "Don't you?"

Draco's eyes remained unreadable for a long, tense moment.

"Yes," Draco said finally; and as he spoke, he began to draw nearer. "Of course I know. Our minds and hearts have been so intimately connected over the past two weeks, Harry, that it isn't hard for me to know what you're thinking..." Draco moved even closer to Harry, "And what you really want." He boldly placed his right hand on Harry's chest.

Harry stared at Draco, shocked and riveted. He could feel the inexorable heat of Draco's body so near his, and Draco's palm was like a branding iron against his chest. He feared that he would get a heart attack and spoil this moment, which seemed too good to be true...

"You want to see what it's like between us now," Draco continued, his voice now a husky whisper. His left hand slid around Harry's neck, pulling them together. "You want to see if you can still make me melt in your arms... and how it feels when we're like this..." Draco leaned in to make his point absolutely clear, and Harry wondered if he would faint from the sheer intensity of the moment.

"Let me show you what it's like again, Harry," Draco purred, his fingers running over Harry's bare neck, stroking away the tension with the lightest caress. "Let me show you how I feel about you now."

With that, Draco kissed Harry hard on the mouth, with such passion and insistence that Harry almost toppled backwards. Draco's tongue pried Harry's lips apart and delved inside, duelling fiercely with Harry's own tongue, almost choking him. Just as Harry was getting used to the bruising kiss, Draco suddenly tore his mouth away from Harry's, and then began kissing and biting a trail down the length of Harry's neck with renewed fervour. Harry closed his eyes, arching against Draco's touch — he could do nothing but groan, relishing the painful yet exquisite touch of Draco's teeth against his skin, the wetness of Draco's tongue as it expertly licked its way up and down his neck.

"Draco..." Harry let the name slip from his lips on the wings of a breath — and at that very moment, Draco broke away, taking three steps backwards and putting a respectable distance between him and Harry again.

Harry's eyes flashed open, disoriented for a moment, drunk on the sensation of Draco pressed up against him, kissing him — but as he looked at Draco again, his blood ran cold. The expression on Draco's face was one of satisfied triumph, and a thin smile curled those lips still flushed from the heat of kissing.

"Nothing," Draco said, enunciating the word clearly, shattering every last illusion that the feverish kiss had conjured in Harry's mind. "I feel absolutely nothing. And that's all I have to say on this matter."

Harry could do nothing but stare at Draco, utterly shocked as the cruelty of Draco's reply slowly sank in. So that exhilarating moment they shared had been too good to be true, after all. He could not hide the disappointment and sadness from showing in his eyes, and Draco plainly saw it. The gloating smile on Draco's face faded slightly — there was a flash of emotion like distant lightning, just as Draco turned away and started towards the door.

But halfway, he stopped, and looked back at Harry.

"It's my turn to ask you something. What were you about to say to me in the storage room, just before Weasley walked in on us? You started to say, 'I think...' " Draco trailed off questioningly.

Harry looked at Draco with a mixture of sadness and resigned defeat. "Before that, I said that a kiss was all I could give you, anymore. But after we kissed, that first time..."

"It wasn't the first time," Draco interrupted flatly.

"It was the first time I kissed you back."

"So what were you going to tell me?"

Harry looked directly at Draco, and said simply, "That I think there's something else I can give you, after all."

Draco's expression didn't alter. "How touching."

He turned to leave, but Harry's voice halted him.

"You said you had a couple of questions," Harry said quietly. "So what's the other one?"

"Oh yes — thanks for reminding me." Draco turned around, and met Harry's eyes levelly. "There's just one more thing."

"Yes?" Harry held his breath, waiting.

"I want my mother's ring back."

Harry stared at Draco in disbelief for a long moment, before he glanced away, as if it hurt too much. His hands trembled slightly as they rose to unclasp the chain around his neck; drawing it free, Harry let the ring slide off the chain and into his palm. The jewels glinted like tarnished eyes, and the metal still felt warm from being suspended against his bare skin.

Harry held it out to Draco, who stepped forward and took it. Without another word or glance, Draco turned and walked out of the classroom, not even bothering to shut the door behind him.

For several moments, Harry could not move. His limbs felt stiff, as if the blood in his veins had frozen with pain and the cold, terrible truth; the ache in his chest was stifling, rendering him almost incapable of breathing properly. He slumped against the nearest wall, and let himself slide to the floor.

It was over.

Harry's mood was no less doleful as he trudged back to Gryffindor Tower, his footsteps leaden and heavy. He crawled through the portrait hole into the common room, and was listlessly walking towards the stairs when a delighted howl stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked around, bewildered, and soon discovered that the howl had originated from none other than Seamus Finnigan, who was bounding toward him at that very moment.

"Harry! Oh my gawd, Harry, just look at you!" Seamus's eyes were wide with amazement; he turned around and hollered, "Dean! Come over here! This is looking snogged! Get your arse over here, Dean! Neville! Anyone else interested! Here is a living specimen of looking thoroughly snogged!"

Unfortunately for Seamus and thankfully for Harry, there was only a handful of other students in the common room, who looked up at the commotion with curiosity. Hermione was one of them; she quickly set down her Transfiguration text, and hurried over, joined closely by Dean and Neville.

"What's going on?" Hermione demanded. But then she took one look at Harry, and exclaimed "Oh my god!"

She promptly took Harry by the arm and, in an unprecedented move, steered him up the stairs and into the girl's dormitory, which was thankfully empty. She closed the door and spun around to face Harry.

Harry blinked at her, nonplussed. "What?"

"Your neck, Harry," Hermione stated simply. "Take a look at your neck."

Harry darted towards the mirror, and what he saw made him jump back. "What the..."

"Harry," Hermione sounded despairing, "Not again! I thought you were going to settle things with Malfoy and put an end to all this!"

"I was! I did!" Harry rushed to justify himself. "I told him that he couldn't ignore me forever, and we got to talking..."

"A rather enthusiastic conversation, I see." Hermione observed, giving Harry a severe look. "Seems to me like Malfoy had rather a lot to say to your neck."

"It's— it's not how it looks," Harry said hastily, looking flustered. "Draco was being unreasonable and antagonistic, and—"

"I'm sure he was really antagonistic," Hermione said dryly. "I suppose he tried to take your head off with his tongue?"

Harry blushed crimson. "Look, Hermione, listen to me for a moment."

"Ron's going to kill you, you know," Hermione informed him.

"What a surprise." Harry sat down on the nearest bed. "He's going to kill me either way."

"And you thought that having it on with Malfoy, and getting a neckful of hickeys as a souvenir, is making the best of the situation?"

"Oh come on, Hermione, it's not as if I had a choice!" Harry protested, still looking distinctly ruffled.

"Somehow I find that hard to believe." Hermione remarked. "You hardly look coerced."

"See, you're not a very objective judge," Harry tried to justify.

"Shall we go ask Seamus's opinion, then?" Hermione countered. "I think he'll have quite a lot to say — whether you ask him or not, actually. You'll be teased about this until you turn twenty."

"It doesn't really matter anymore." Harry flopped back on the bed, suddenly feeling utterly exhausted. "It's over with, anyway. There's nothing left to hide, so Seamus and the others can go on thinking whatever they want to."

Hermione's expression softened. "I'm sorry it didn't go well with Malfoy. But I mean... I'm sure you expected it, right? He hasn't got the love potion to distract him any longer, so he's gone back to his full-time job of being an insufferable git."

"Too bad I can't go back to my full-time job of not caring," Harry said softly.

Hermione looked at Harry with a mixture of bafflement and admiration. "He really does mean a lot to you now, doesn't he?"

"What I think isn't really important," Harry said tiredly. "The point is, Draco wants to pretend that none of this ever happened. So be it, then. I think he deserves that much, for the hell he's been through this past couple of weeks."

"And what about you?" Hermione pointed out. "You haven't exactly had a honeymoon either."

"I'll manage." Harry shrugged, and then quietly added, "At least now, one of us is happy. And even if I had a choice, I'd rather that one be Draco."

Hermione gave Harry a long, thoughtful look, and finally shook her head. "I thought Draco was pretty sharp, but it seems the love potion has driven out whatever common sense he ever had."

"What do you mean?" Harry asked.

"He's making a big mistake." Hermione paused. "And when he realises how stupid he's been, it'll be too late. He's throwing away something that comes once in a lifetime."

"And what's that?"

"Everything he could ever ask for," Hermione answered. "To have someone like you."

Two nights later, Draco walked into his dormitory to find a wrapped package sitting on his bed. It wasn't a parcel from home, since all outgoing packages from the Malfoy household always had the family crest emblazoned on them. Curious, Draco sat down and unwrapped it — and to his amazement, a silky fabric flowed out upon his lap, like silver water woven into thread.

It was an Invisibility Cloak. Draco stared at it for a few moments, and then began hunting for an accompanying note — he finally found it, tucked neatly inside the inner folds of the cloak. In Harry's handwriting, these words were penned: On loan. Use discreetly, and take good care of it.

He turned the parchment over, and saw that one more line was written; and he stared at it for a very long time, battling with the onslaught of emotions evoked by the simple, final words that Harry had added:

14 Dust and Ashes

Who so loves, believes the impossible.

"Do you believe in fate, Hermione?"

The cool evening wind ruffled Harry's dark, unruly hair; he didn't bother to push away the fringe that fanned across his eyes. He stared out across the lake, tranquil like a mirror of liquid glass, as ripples of troubled thoughts rose in his mind.

"Do you?" Hermione asked simply.

Harry shrugged, his gaze fixed across the waters. He liked how they remained calm even as gentle winds swirled over the surface. There was a dense, balanced quality about the lake that was infinitely calming.

But even after the storm was calmed, the damage still remained.

When Harry didn't answer, Hermione seemed on the brink of saying something, but she held back. Harry was quiet for a while, casting for the right words to express things he didn't quite understand.

"I don't know," he finally said, the frustration and hopelessness shining through his voice, glistening like unshed tears. "Is there any other way that'll make this easier to accept?"

Hermione's expression softened. She reached out, and touched Harry's arm.

"It's not your fault," she said quietly, "and neither is it Malfoy's. Sometimes things just turn out very differently from what you expect."

"Like the way he was the one who drank the love potion, but I'm the one finding it hard to let him go?" Harry blurted out bitterly; then he caught himself, and said quickly, "To let go, I mean."

Hermione took a deep breath, and sighed.

"You can't let go of what was never yours in the first place." She looked intently at Harry; her tone was meaningful. "You never really had him, Harry. You have to try to remember that it was the love potion influencing him, and any affection, or... or, love, as it might've seemed — none of it was real."

The stark truth fractured Harry's fragile veneer of composure — raw emotion flashed through him like a whip of lightning, and Harry closed his eyes. There was nothing left to see, nothing to hold on to.

None of it was real.

"This seems like a convenient time to blame it on fate, don't you think?" he said wearily. "It was all so wrong to begin with — I find it hard to believe this wasn't written in the stars of a very dark night." His voice quavered. "The night I went to the Forbidden Forest."

"So you think that you and Malfoy were meant to meet each other there?" Hermione asked pensively, a small frown etching her brow.

"I can't explain it any other way," Harry answered. "I wasn't supposed to be out of bed. Somehow I got it in my head that I had to sneak out to send an owl to Sirius in the middle of the night, even without my Cloak. And that same night Malfoy was in the Forbidden Forest, at precisely the time I went past. Do you think the bizarre crossing of our paths was just a coincidence?"

Hermione looked thoughtful for a long moment. Her eyes were bright and alert, as if her mind was running through everything which had transpired since that night in the Forbidden Forest — whether it was fate, fortune, or something else altogether.

"I don't think it was meant to happen," Hermione said finally. "It just did." She paused, then added softly, "And in the most unlikely place, you and Malfoy found each other."

Draco sat on his bed, his arms crossed, a frown on his face and a scowl on his lips.

He'd been like this all day. And yesterday. And the day before that. Until even Crabbe and Goyle knew better than to ask him what was wrong, and just stayed away without being told.

Draco sighed, and rolled over to lie on his stomach. When nothing meaningful filled his time, it was easy to keep track of how much of it had gone by. It had been almost a week since Harry had given him the Invisibility Cloak; it was now carefully stashed in his trunk, under his bed.

Draco was feeling restless — but it was a different sort of restlessness, not on the edge of a dream, but rather, at the end of it, when reality swallowed up the beauty and perfection that illusion had conjured. It was the restlessness of remembrance.

So it was over with Harry. He had made sure Harry knew that.

Perhaps now he should start convincing himself.

On impulse, Draco leaned over and rummaged through the drawer by his bedside. His fingers groped for cold metal, the touch of ice that had once braceleted his wrist, marking him more deeply than he had realised — until now.

Cold was warmth, being owned was a willing offering. That's what Harry had done to him.

He drew the single handcuff out, and held it up for inspection. The smooth metal glinted in the dim firelight that flickered from the lone torch on the dormitory wall. The weight of the handcuff on his palm was comforting, a broken circle that fitted perfectly within the contours of his hand.

The inscription on the cuff stood out starkly, like silver fire-writing on the outer band, fanciful lettering forming a simple name. Draco closed his eyes as memories flooded through his mind, a relentless tide that overwhelmed him — then everything began to dissolve to nothing, purified in the relentless crucible of his heart, until there remained only the essence of what still held a place deep inside him.

Draco opened his eyes, and stared at Harry's name on the cuff: H J Potter.

Harry James Potter, the Boy Who Lived to make people question their belief systems. Harry had certainly taught him the meaning of "nothing will ever be the same again." And this is what Draco feared most — that it would wreck him, and destroy Harry. There was too much at stake. Too much to lose that neither of them could afford.

Draco let the handcuff drop softly onto the covers next to him; like a fallen steel petal, hollowed in the middle. Draco looked at it for a long moment.

He'd done everything he could to push Harry away.

And it had worked.

"Are you going to tell us why you and Harry aren't talking?" Seamus asked, always the epitome of tact and discretion.

Ron, who was sitting near the fireplace of the Gryffindor common room, looked up from his book; his expression was closed, and his voice was hard as he said, "No, it's nothing, really."

"Okay. Why aren't you talking to Hermione, either?"

"Look," Ron suddenly seemed agitated. "Why don't you go ask Hermione about it? She knows more about Harry than I do."

"We did," Seamus said woefully. "But she won't tell us. She told us to mind our own business."

"That isn't bad advice," Ron pointed out.

"But these invisible walls you're building all over the place aren't good," Seamus protested. "We might walk into them."

"Oh, c'mon, Ron," Dean chimed in, scooting closer to the redheaded boy. "Wars are always fought for a reason. Well, most of the time, anyway. So what is it? Did Harry read your diary? Forget your birthday? What did he do that's made you so mad at him?"

"Maybe it's more like something he didn't do," Ron said, a streak of anger in his voice. "He forgot that I was his friend." An expression of bitterness crossed his face. "There was a time I thought I knew Harry. I thought he trusted me, the way I trusted him. But I was wrong." He shrugged. "I don't know him at all."

Seamus and Dean exchanged alarmed looks.

"Gosh, Ron, cut it out, you're scaring us," Seamus said, with wide eyes. "What's going on?"

"I don't want to talk about it," Ron said shortly, with a tight shake of his head. "No offence, but you two wouldn't understand, anyway." He abruptly stood up, and walked towards the portrait hole. "I'm going for a walk," he tossed over his shoulder; and he was gone.

Dean and Seamus blinked, and looked at each other.

"So much for your fledging career in espionage, Seamus," Dean remarked. "On that note, I don't recommend you become a shrink, either. Your patients would run away, like Ron just did."

"Only a little snag in the plan," Seamus said stoically. "Don't worry, we'll find out what's going on soon enough. Trust me."

"Sure," Dean muttered. "Probably when what's going on finds us, first."

Harry went into his dormitory alone. He missed having Ron by his side — and then felt guilty because, for the couple of weeks he was preoccupied with helping Draco, he hadn't been a very good friend to Ron at all. Harry walked towards his bed — and from a distance, a dark blur on his pillow caught his eye. He blinked, and went to take a closer look.

When he saw what it was, his heart skipped a beat, and then another. With trembling hands, Harry reached over, and picked it up.

It was a black rose.

Harry stared at it for what seemed like an eternity — everything seemed to fade around him, like shadows receding away from the pure black of the rose he held in his hands, its dark velvet petals unfurled in a perfect bloom. A thorn on the stem pricked his finger, a reminder of reality; but Harry ignored it. He felt his legs give out, as he sat heavily down on the bed.

There was no note accompanying the flower, no other sign of who could have given it to him, except for the rose itself. Harry had seen the list of ingredients for the love potion enough times to know what the last element of the concoction was — a black rose.

Ever since he sent Draco his Invisibility Cloak, Harry hadn't heard a word from the other boy. He'd half expected Draco to send back the Cloak, but the Slytherin hadn't; he'd simply accepted the parcel without acknowledgement or reply. Almost a week had passed, and Harry had all but given up hope of hearing from Draco; he'd told no one about the loan of the Cloak, not even Hermione.

Now all the words he had waited for were crafted in the rose itself — the colour of the night they had met, the fragile perfection that would only fade with time. And the trickle of blood was a reminder of the new form of pain that Draco had shown him how to feel.

Why had Draco given the black rose to him?

Harry stood up, swallowing the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. He held up the rose, and looked at it again; already it seemed more subdued, black fading into a paler shade, some of its vibrant darkness diffusing into the atmosphere of wistful sadness all around.

What had Draco meant?

Picking up a library book on potions that Hermione had lent him, Harry left the boys' dormitory, and went to look for her. She wasn't in the common room, and so Harry ventured up the stairs to the girls' dormitory. Knocking twice, there was no answer from within — but then, he hadn't really expected any of the Gryffindor girls to be in their room in the middle of the day.

He suddenly remembered that Hermione had a meeting with McGonagall about her Advanced Transfiguration project. He let himself into the dormitory, and went to leave the book on Hermione's bed. But as he turned to leave, Harry spied a scroll on Hermione's bedside that looked... familiar.

He hesitated, then leaned over and picked it up. A shiver coursed through him as he recognised what it was — and now, the memory of it felt so detached, so far removed, as if from another life, a life that had since passed him by.

It was Draco's Imperius essay.

He sat down on the edge of Hermione's bed, unfurled the scroll, and began to read. His eyes skimmed over the parchment, as he felt every nuance in Draco's words spear through him, twisting like the pain of a blade shard lost deep within his soul.

"Over time, probably the most destructive effect of Imperius on a person is the gradual, conscious yielding of the mind, until submission becomes almost voluntary, an acquired habit..."

Harry closed his eyes, unable to read further. He felt a terrible tightness knotted in his chest, rendering him almost incapable of breathing properly. When he finally opened his eyes once more, the words coalesced and blurred for a moment, before they came into focus again.

"That is when the Curse has finally conquered the last citadel of one's character — his heart."

And Harry couldn't have described it better.

"We're starting a new topic," Professor Lupin announced, "which will be of much practical value to all of you. Today, we will learn more about wizard's duels."

Harry glanced at Hermione, sitting next to him. She was studiously scratching away at a fresh piece of parchment, which was steadily becoming filled with her small, neat handwriting. As Lupin gave a brief introduction to wizard's duels, Harry looked furtively to his right, where Ron was sitting with Neville.

Ever since that night in Dumbledore's office, he and Ron hadn't exchanged more than two words at a time; Harry was painfully reminded of their rift back in their fourth year, when Ron had misunderstood Harry's entry into the Triwizard Tournament as a quest for glory.

The only difference was: this time, there wasn't a misunderstanding.

Ron had understood the situation perfectly, perhaps even more than Harry could bear to admit to himself — that somehow, against all sense and reason, Harry had found a place in his heart for Draco Malfoy. That was the truth. And there was nothing Harry could do to mend their falling-out this time; even facing a fiery dragon would not change anything.

Then Harry looked across the room, at Draco.

The blond Slytherin was twirling his quill listlessly, looking bored in an altogether fetching way. Harry noticed how Draco was sitting upright, free from the invisible weight of unrequited yearning that had hunched them before. Harry watched as Draco raised his hand to push his fringe out of his eyes; he saw the way Draco's hand was steady, those slender fingers tucking the stray strands behind his ear.

Draco looked so different, yet, still the same. It was a strange paradox to look at Draco now, having seen the two very different facets of him. There was the Draco that he had known before, who kept everyone at bay with his spiked fences of cruel sarcasm and spite; but also the other Draco he had come to know so intimately, who was proud yet not arrogant, witty without being malicious — but at the same time, tortured without any hope, suffering without any cure.

Or so they had thought.

Then Harry had given him the cure he needed; and, in so doing, he gave up the other Draco whom he had become attracted to, whom he had grown to care about. He was foolish to have hoped that somehow, after things went back to normal, Draco wouldn't revert to his former self.

He'd been hurt once already. That bruising kiss in the classroom was more than enough to remind him how imagining Draco would still be drawn to him was a stupid dream that deserved to be shattered. And Draco had done him that favour extremely well indeed. Since then, Harry had made himself truly believe that Draco didn't care about him any longer.

Until the black rose.

"... invite Harry Potter to tell us his experiences?" came Lupin's voice, breaking into his thoughts.

Harry blinked, jolted back into reality; he hastily picked up his quill and poised it over the blank piece of parchment laid flat in front of him. He saw the rest of the class turn to look at him expectantly — except for Draco, who didn't even turn his head.

Hermione cleared her throat. "He wants to interview you," she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

"Yes, Professor?" Harry rose to his feet, feeling distinctly ruffled and unprepared. He hadn't been listening to Lupin's lecture, and had absolutely no idea what he was being asked for.

If Lupin noticed Harry's distraction, he didn't show it.

"I've done enough lecturing from the books for this lesson. There's only so much I can tell you about duelling." Lupin gave Harry an encouraging smile. "But, I think hearing Harry share his experiences of duelling will prove to everyone here that duelling has nothing to do with age and everything to do with skill and, most importantly, determination. Harry — would you please come to the front of the classroom?"

The Gryffindors grinned and clapped as Harry made his way to the front, where Lupin was standing. Harry felt himself blushing, and hoped it wasn't too obvious.

"So, Harry," Lupin started, "tell us about wizard's duelling — no, don't tell me, face your classmates and tell them about it."

Reluctantly, Harry turned to face the rest of the class. He willed himself not to look at Draco. He couldn't afford to show what he felt, not in front of everyone. It would be too humiliating for him, and for Draco.

"What about wizard's duelling?" Harry asked, partly stalling, partly not knowing how to begin.

"Well, when did you first learn about it?" Lupin asked easily. "When was your first duel?"

Something about Lupin's questions struck a chord with Harry; and suddenly his apprehension melted away, and the words came to him naturally, like waters crashing past a broken dam, a profusion of suppressed emotion finally finding expression.

"I first heard of duelling when I came to Hogwarts," Harry began; his own voice surprised him with its strength and steadiness. He lifted his eyes to look directly at Ron. "And my friend Ron explained to me how it worked."

Ron looked up, startled at the mention of his name.

Harry kept holding his gaze, as he continued, "It was, to say the least, very intimidating to me. I never imagined I would be able to hold my own — and when I was first challenged to a wizard's duel, I hadn't a clue what to do." Harry gave a wry smile. "But Ron stood up for me, and offered to be my second. If not for him, I would never have worked up the nerve to accept that challenge."

Ron was staring at Harry, as if in disbelief. Harry smiled at him, a fervent smile which spoke his sorrow and asked for forgiveness. Ron hesitated, and didn't smile back; but the edges of his mouth twitched slightly, and the expression in his eyes softened.

"So what became of that first challenge?" Lupin asked.

"It never happened." Harry turned back to Lupin. "Which was a relief, really, since I don't think I knew enough magic then, and spells gone wrong are often messier than necessary." He managed a grin. "I think Mr Filch would've had quite a lot to say about that."

Lupin allowed a small smile in return. "If that challenge didn't materialise, then when was your first proper wizard's duel?"

"A Duelling Club was started in my second year," Harry answered; he willed himself not to glance at a certain boy sitting on the Slytherin side of the classroom. "We were taught the basics of duelling, and a few simple spells like the Disarming Charm. Then we were paired off for the first duel." He halted for a heartbeat. "My first duel."

Lupin nodded. "And in retrospect, what do you think of that first duel?"

Harry didn't even hesitate. "I think it was the most important duel of my life."

Two rows from the front, a blond head snapped up; a pair of grey eyes watched Harry with narrowed surprise.

"Is that so?" Lupin asked, eyebrow raised. "Could you tell us why?"

Harry steeled himself to remain steady, and he kept his eyes fixed on Lupin. But even though he didn't turn his head, he could feel Draco's gaze on him, unfaltering; and the titillation being watched by Draco sent a shiver of cold fire up his spine.

"There are many reasons," he said finally. "And most of them didn't become apparent to me until much later. But I gained a lot of experience during that first duel, lessons that I've carried with me ever since."

"What kind of lessons?" Lupin prompted.

"How to be careful," Harry replied. "How to watch your opponent and never trust him to play fair, because in real life there's no such thing as playing by the rules." He paused. "Rules are anything that can help you survive. In the first few moments of that duel, I found out the world of difference between the way things should be done, and the way they actually happen."

Lupin looked mildly surprised; perhaps he hadn't expected such frank comments from Harry, especially not to a class who was supposed to learn the proper etiquette of wizard's duels. But he let Harry continue.

Harry bit on his lower lip; he cast his mind back to that night in the Great Hall, when he had stood across from Malfoy, poised, waiting for the count of three — and the years seemed to melt away, and that duel half a decade ago was still a vivid memory. Time changed nothing.

"It taught me to expect the worst, and be prepared for it." Harry spoke in a quiet voice, but in the silence of the classroom it rang clear as a bell, resonant with melancholy. "It was the first time I picked up a wand for the purpose of duelling, and I wasn't sure what to expect."

Harry broke off abruptly; and for a moment the memories were so devastatingly stark that he remained silent, too overcome to do justice to the intensity of the feelings that ran through him.

"I remember the only question my duelling partner asked me that night," Harry's voice was filled with a quiet, delicate tone of acceptance. "He asked me if I was scared. And I told him, 'You wish.' "

His words drew a scatter of laughter from the class; but Harry didn't smile. His expression remained completely serious, as he continued speaking.

"But the truth was that I was scared. And too scared to admit it — least of all to the very person who... unsettled me so much." Harry drew a deep breath. "I suppose there's a first time for everything in life, not just duels."

And then Harry turned, and looked straight at Draco; their eyes locked, and everything seemed to crash to nothing, falling away as they held gazes for that eternal moment. Draco's eyes were remote, yet filled with a veiled emotion too vague to be interpreted. Harry felt himself being drawn simply by the unwavering power of Draco's eyes watching him, like a moth to a flame; to its destruction.

Harry's lips moved, and the words left his mouth like whispers in a dense dream —

"And when you've never done, or felt, something before," Harry's eyes never once left Draco's. "It scares you."

Something flitted across the calm expression in Draco's eyes, ripples quickly swallowed up by still waters — and then Draco looked away, breaking their intense eye contact.

The moth blazed to ash.

Everything moved again, but in a different way — not falling away, but falling apart. Harry's mind spun as he forced himself to turn to Lupin.

It was the end. There was nothing left to say — and now he couldn't even blame it on words left unspoken, because there were none. He'd said what he wanted to, bared a part of his soul in front of the entire class because that was the only way he could make Draco listen... and now, there was nothing left for him to give.

"So," Lupin said, "how did learning these lessons help you in other duels?"

Hearing Lupin's question, Harry was suddenly struck by the ironic symmetry of past and present, of mistakes made and lessons gleaned — and a sense of overwhelming sadness filled him, because he had finally come full circle.

"I said there were lessons," Harry gave a wry, bitter smile. "But I never said I learned any of them."

There was no need for pretenses any longer. Harry glanced up, and saw Hermione looking at him anxiously; he knew she understood what he was talking about. That was more than could be said of his other classmates, including Ron, who were looking bewildered at Harry's cryptic comments. But he hadn't been talking for them.

He'd said those things for Draco.

"Thank you for sharing your experiences, Harry," Lupin regarded him thoughtfully; just as Harry was about to return to his seat, Lupin added, "Before you go, just one last question?"

Harry halted, and turned. He was feeling tired, in more ways than one. "Yes, Professor?"

"Who was your first duelling partner?"

Harry looked at Lupin for a long moment.

"Draco Malfoy," he said finally.

A low murmur rose from his classmates, although it wasn't out of surprise, as almost the entire class had been at the Duelling Club five years ago. Most likely, they still remembered that particular duel between Harry and Draco, which had resulted in Harry's discovering that he was a Parselmouth. Rather, they were probably puzzled, and somewhat disconcerted, by Harry's plain acknowledgement that he had been scared when he faced Malfoy in that duel. How could Harry ever say that, especially in front of Malfoy himself?

"Malfoy?" Lupin sounded surprised; he hadn't been a teacher at Hogwarts at that time. He looked at Draco with renewed interest. "I had no idea you and Harry had duelled before..." and both lived to tell the tale, was the sentiment that was discreetly implied at the end of his trailing sentence.

Draco remained impassive, and said nothing.

Harry filled in by nodding; he added softly, "We have." Duelled, and done a lot more since then.

"Well," Lupin looked contemplative. "Since I was also planning to have a live demonstration of a proper wizard's duel in class today, I wonder if both of you would like to be participants." He paused, and glanced from Harry to Draco, and back to Harry again. "Especially since your previous duel together proved to be such a memorable one. Draco, you can take heart from the fact that some of the experience Harry gained while duelling with you, probably helped him triumph when he faced the Dark Lord himself."

That last comment caused a mutter of muted outrage among the Slytherins, but Draco was unmoved. Perhaps not quite unfazed, but rather, too preoccupied to care.

Lupin cast a sidelong glance at Harry. "Are you willing to help in the demonstration?"

Harry's eyes flickered briefly to Draco. The Slytherin remained seated, but Harry could see the tension in Draco's squared shoulders, his slender body held proudly upright. Although Draco's face was carefully wiped clean of emotion, Harry could see the keen wariness inherent in Draco's manner: much like a cat sensing approaching shadows and drawing itself together, poised and ready to strike.

"Yes — if he wants to," Harry replied cautiously; once more, he didn't know what to expect, and the thought of duelling with Draco again awakened a thrilling sensation within him.

All eyes now turned to Draco. The blond boy didn't bat an eyelid, or move a muscle — he simply sat where he was, nonchalant despite the heightened anticipation that awaited his reaction in the crucial moments that were to follow.

Finally, Draco stood gracefully. With a fluid sweep of his left hand, he picked up his wand from where it lay on the table. He stepped away from his chair and, exuding nothing but elegance and supreme confidence, made his way to the front of the classroom, where Lupin and Harry stood waiting. He drew to a halt several feet away from Harry, standing directly opposite him.

"Thank you, Draco," Lupin said pleasantly; but his tone bore a firm warning as he continued, "Now please bear in mind that this is a demonstration. Charms used during this duel must only be from the list of permissible magic spells, found in your textbook. Should things get out of hand, I will halt the duel promptly — so if you wish to derive the most practical benefit and experience from this exercise, keep in line." Lupin looked at the two boys appraisingly. "I won't worry about giving amateur handicaps, since both of you seem well-matched."

Both of you seem well-matched. Harry's mouth twisted humourlessly. Indeed.

Lupin now addressed the class. "As you can see, Harry and Draco are in the starting position for a wizard's duel: a fair distance apart, directly opposite each other, wands ready. Always stand straight, shoulders upright."

Now Lupin paused and looked at the students, who were all waiting eagerly.

"Something is missing," Lupin said, "that would often be present in a proper wizard's duel. Can anyone tell me what it is?"

Hermione's hand was, as usual, first up in the air. Lupin gestured towards her. "Yes, Hermione?"

"A second," Hermione answered. "To take over in case something... untoward happens to the main dueller."

"Yes, that is correct," Lupin nodded approvingly. "Seconds are not always featured in wizard's duels, since they aren't compulsory. Also, the situation sometimes does not allow for a second to be formally appointed for each side. But, for the sake of our demonstration today, we will let our duellers appoint their second. Harry, whom do you choose?"

Without hesitation Harry said, "Ron."

Ron sat up with a jolt, looking flustered. Harry gave him a long, silently imploring look. He was grasping at the last straws of their floundering friendship; and he fervently hoped that Ron wouldn't turn him down now — or it would mean things between them were truly beyond repair.

"Ron," Harry said again, in a quiet yet clear voice. "Will you be my second?"

Hearing Harry speak his name again seemed to spur Ron to action. He stared at Harry for a moment longer; then he got up, grabbed his wand off the table and headed towards the front of the classroom.

Harry exhaled a sigh of relief; and, from where she sat, Hermione broke into a small smile. As Ron came up to stand beside him, Harry turned to him with a look of gratitude that radiated from deep within him.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Ron only nodded in reply; but in his blue eyes, Harry could see the start of the familiar warmth returning, which he had badly missed seeing over the past couple of weeks. His spirits lifted slightly, and the gloom seemed to recede — at least not all was lost.

Harry glanced up, and saw Draco watching them. Even though Draco's eyes were inscrutable as always, Harry knew the Slytherin clearly discerned the covert beginnings of reconciliation between him and Ron.

Lupin now turned to Draco. "Whom do you pick for your second?"

Draco shook his head once, not taking his eyes off Harry. "I don't need one."

The arrogance that came so naturally to Draco's voice caused a stir among their classmates. The Slytherins smirked and cheered their comrade on; the Gryffindors muttered indignantly about Draco's irreverence, and cast dark looks at their counterparts.

Lupin gave Draco a meaningful look. "Are you sure about that, Mr Malfoy?"

"Absolutely." Draco's expression didn't alter.

"Well, then, it's your choice." Lupin turned his attention to Ron. "For this demonstration, if Harry is thrown off his feet or temporarily stunned by a spell, you can take his place in the duel."

Now Lupin looked first at Harry, then Draco, and finally the rest of the class.

"Now this is very important, so listen carefully," he said. "In reality, during actual wizard's duels, no one actually waits for the count of three before throwing their first spell. You hesitate, and you may find that you've already turned into something not very pleasant at all. So the question is, how do you know when to strike?"

Lupin gestured for Harry and Draco to get ready to duel.

"It all has to do with the precise timing of the bow. The moment both partners bow to each other, the duel begins, and spells come fast and furious. So it's imperative that you already have your first spell in mind. I cannot emphasise this enough. Now," he glanced pointedly at Draco. "Remember, permissible spells only."

Lupin took a step backwards, clearing sufficient space for the duel. The rest of the class leaned forward in their seats, riveted by what promised to send sparks flying to the top of the Astronomy Tower — a wizard's duel between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy.

Harry and Draco faced each other. The air was charged with heated excitement — Harry could hear the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears as he watched his partner; and Draco was all he saw, all that mattered in this moment that was exclusively theirs.

With a barely perceptible quirk of his eyebrow, Draco curtly dipped his head. Harry did the same, his fingers tightening on his wand as he bowed, and when he raised his head again he was struck, not by the first spell of their duel, but by the expression of perfect composure on Draco's face.

It was the quintessence of calm and control, as if there was nothing Draco wanted to change about this transient instant in time, hanging on the edge of a moment that was about to be lost forever.

Neither of them moved. Stillness roared like a silent flame.

Lupin eyed Harry and Draco curiously. "You may begin," he suggested.

Eternity passed by, and vanished like smoke.

Draco took several steps forward, and Harry tensed, a defensive spell on the tip of his tongue — but to his utmost surprise, Draco dropped down on one knee in front of him.

With both hands, Draco carefully laid his own wand at Harry's feet, and then straightened in a single, swift movement. He stood in front of Harry, his eyes of silver flame burning like the sun across arctic shores; Harry found himself frozen to the spot, unable to do anything but just stare, enthralled.

Draco's lips parted to utter two simple words: "I concede."

Then Draco stepped away, and without another word or backward glance, returned to his seat.

Harry watched Draco in utter disbelief; fragments of thoughts swirled through the giddy confusion in his mind like random snowflakes against a dawn-lit sky, which melted as he caught them in his hand — he couldn't make sense of any of them.

For once, both the Gryffindors and Slytherins were stumped. Everyone exchanged quizzical glances, and turned to stare at Draco; the blond boy kept his eyes steadily on the front, his face masked and betraying nothing more than his actions already had.

Even Professor Lupin seemed slightly thrown.

"Well," he cleared his throat. "What Mr Malfoy has just demonstrated for us isn't how most wizard's duels end, I can assure you. But at least you've seen how to prepare for a duel, and the proper stance to assume in starting position. Thank you for your participation, Harry. So we've covered the basics that you should know, and what we'll discuss next are the dark spells usually cast in duels, and how to defend yourself against them."

Lupin checked the time; there were only a few minutes to the end of the lesson.

"All right, that's all for today. Class dismissed." He glanced at Draco. "Before you leave, Mr Malfoy — a word, please."

Harry made his way back to his table as the rest of the class gathered their things and filtered out of the classroom, murmuring with muted excitement about what had just happened. Harry was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he forgot that Ron was by his side, until the other boy tapped him on the shoulder.

"You okay, Harry?" Ron's voice brought him back to the present, and he quickly turned. Ron was looking at him with a mix of curiosity and concern.

Harry shook his head, still dazed. "I'm not sure," was all he could truthfully answer, just as Hermione hurried up to them.

"Harry!" Hermione seemed as if she was bursting to tell some news. "Are you all right? I can't believe Malfoy did that. I simply..." she looked truly awed. "I simply can't. Malfoy, of all people!"

"What do you mean?" Ron demanded, casting a suspicious look in Draco's direction. "What the hell was that all about?"

"Malfoy conceded," Hermione said in a low voice, filled with amazement. "You do know what that means, don't you?"

Harry blinked. "What?"

Hermione made an exasperated sound. "It's all in the textbook, middle section of the chapter on wizard's duelling. Don't you ever read the textbook?"

"As a matter of fact, it's one of your habits that hasn't quite rubbed off," Harry responded impatiently. "Now, will you just tell me what it means, that he conceded?"

Hermione looked at Harry, as if calculating the effect what she had to say would have on him.

"To 'concede' in a wizard's duel is the highest form of etiquette there is," she finally said. "It's a very rare occurrence — there have been less than a dozen times in recorded wizarding history where one party has conceded to the other. Most cases, it happened when a student had to face his mentor in a duel." She paused for effect. "To concede is an ultimate sign of respect, a humble acknowledgement that one is not worthy of his opponent. It's the greatest tribute anyone can pay to his partner."

Harry stared at her, stunned. It took several moments for the impact of Hermione's explanation to sink in. Even Ron was at a loss for words; all three of them stood quiet, pensive.

Then Harry glanced over his shoulder at Draco, who was now standing at the front of the classroom, talking to Lupin. He gazed at that blond head, and for the millionth time wondered what the hell Draco was thinking.

"Why would he do that?" Harry asked softly, almost to himself.

Hermione tilted her head thoughtfully, and was silent for a long while.

Finally, she said, "I haven't the faintest idea."

And so it was that once more, Harry did what he swore he would never do again, a mistake that he would never make twice — he decided to go look for Draco, outside the Slytherin dungeons.

After Lupin's class, he told Ron and Hermione to go back to Gryffindor Tower without him. Ron seemed on the verge of objecting, but Hermione swiftly cut in and said, "We'll wait for you there." Then she firmly took Ron by the arm and steered him away. As he watched them leave, Harry was reminded how thankful he was to have Hermione as his friend. With a sense of relief, he thought of how his friendship with Ron seemed on the mend, and he hoped that the worst part of the storm between them was over.

If friendship was hard, love was damn near impossible.

The hallway leading to the Slytherin dungeons was empty; all the Slytherins had already gone inside. The corridors that stretched to either side were silent and shadowed, mirroring the troubled brooding in Harry's mind. Time seemed to be running on an agonisingly slow track, and Harry was restless with impatience as he stood, and waited.

But for Draco, he'd always wait.

Finally, Draco appeared around the bend. He immediately caught sight of Harry; he didn't seem in the least surprised to see Harry standing there, although a hidden emotion quivered in those ice-grey eyes.

Harry spoke first. "I need to talk to you."

Without a word, Draco jerked his head towards the same classroom they had gone to the last time they talked. They went inside; and Harry was struck with a sense of deja vu. Everything felt so familiar — the dim curtain of shadows, the titillating mood of melancholy and allure... he remembered it all, in heartbreakingly vivid detail.

Draco took a single, decisive step forward, bringing him in front of Harry, only a couple of feet away.

"We're talking now," he said steadily; his gaze pierced Harry's soul.

"Why did you concede?" Harry's words were unlocked simply by the powerful intensity of Draco's eyes.

The edges of Draco's mouth lifted ever so slightly, and Harry could have sworn that it was a sad smile. But it faded as quickly as it had risen, as all beautiful things always did.

"Because you deserved to win." Draco's voice was quiet, filled with a sincerity that touched Harry by its plain, raw truthfulness. "You always have."

"No, Draco," Harry said softly. "We both lost."

"There's a first time for everything in life," Draco answered; the echoes of Harry's own words sounded bittersweet coming from Draco's lips. "We've learned our lesson now." He paused significantly. "Or, have we."

It wasn't a question; not even a statement. It was both a challenge and an acceptance, asked and answered, an tentative step into an unknown realm, in fear of the truth that would be found.

Draco tilted his head slightly, still looking at Harry. "Thanks for the Cloak. I would tell you that you didn't have to — but, you already know that. So instead I'll ask, why did you want to?"

Harry gave a little shrug. "It's the least I could do." His voice was wistful as he added, "All I can do."

"That sounds familiar," Draco said evenly. "I've heard you say that before."

Harry nodded, feeling a tightness in his throat; and he couldn't stop the question that spilled from the deepest part of himself, "What changed since then?"

He knew what Draco would say, of course. Everything. Everything had changed.

But Draco answered simply: "Nothing."

Harry couldn't hide his surprise. "I've heard you say that before."

The same word, from the same person. Nothing. Spoken in the same place, the same situation. But what a world of difference it made — once hurting, twice healing.

Something else occurred to Harry. "Why did you give me the black rose?"

A distinct expression flitted across Draco's face — not quite warmth, although it seemed to melt the remote distance in his eyes.

"I thought you would've known," Draco said deliberately; his eyes shone like burnished silver.

"No I don't," Harry answered; and there was nothing he wished more than that he did. "Why don't you tell me?"

There was a long pause, filled with expectation and hope so fervent that it could not be articulated except by the waiting silence that followed — the delicate balance of shared past and uncertain future, of what they both knew but didn't dare to believe.

And when Draco finally parted his lips to speak, Harry was breathless with anticipation. Draco seemed to hesitate, as if his natural eloquence deserted him at this critical moment, or as if words were the only solace when his feelings didn't know how to find form any other way.

"If it weren't for the black rose," he said finally, "I would never have been in the Forbidden Forest that night. The black rose was the reason we met," Draco broke off — he took a deep breath, then continued, "and it seems only right that it is where we end."

15 The Truth About Love

Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired.

The sky was gold, and the hoops of the Quidditch goal posts stood out against the brilliant sunset, their silver rims kindled to fire. The breeze was strong and cool, although not chillingly so; Harry pulled his robes tighter around him as he sat alone in the empty stands. He remembered threatening to handcuff someone to the goal posts once. Harry's mouth curled at the wistful memory. Once.

There were also other things, which he'd felt once before: intimate moments, fleeting touches, defensive anger that rose to mask something else. And then there was guilt, and regret, and the bittersweet traces of lingering hope.

But they were no more.

"Things look different from the ground, don't they."

Jolted from his reverie, Harry turned in the direction of the familiar voice — to find Ron standing at the end of the bench, watching him with a strange quirk on his lips. For once, there was no sullen rage simmering on Ron's freckled face. The wind caught his tousled red hair, ruffling it.

Harry smiled, and stretched his legs a little as Ron came to sit down next to him. They sat in silence for a while; but it was a comfortable silence, not questioning, not demanding any answers.

Finally, Harry answered simply. "Yes, it does look different."

"We're different, Harry." Ron's voice was steady, and bore a certain calm quality that surprised Harry as much as his forthrightness. Before Harry had the chance to protest, Ron continued, "The skies are... well, your home. I don't think you even know how many rows of benches each stand holds. But I do." He paused. "I spend a lot of time where you're sitting now." Ron's voice faltered ever so slightly as he added, "See things from my point of view, Harry."

Harry swallowed hard, and for a moment, he had to look away.

"I know, Ron," he managed thickly, and he wished things had turned out differently, without having incurred so much grief and anger to achieve nothing but more pain. "I'm sorry."

"You really care about him?" Ron sounded as if it took a great effort just to force the words past his lips.

Harry stole a sidelong glance at his friend, and saw that the red-haired boy was determinedly avoiding eye contact. Harry couldn't suppress a smile, though it was not one of happiness but rather, the remembrance of loss. They both stared at the vast sky for several moments before Harry finally answered.

"Yes."

Harry heard Ron exhale sharply, although he kept his composure remarkably well. But Ron couldn't keep the grimace out of his voice as he dully repeated, "Malfoy."

Harry grinned, this time with mild amusement. "Yes."

"I'm sure you'll understand I find this very hard to believe," Ron said, but without any malice or hatred. For all the countless times he had replayed the possible scenarios of his eventual confrontation with Ron over the matter of Draco Malfoy and his own feelings for said Slytherin, this was more than Harry could have ever hoped for.

"No, of course I don't expect you to understand or accept this whole thing with Malfoy." Harry gave a self-deprecating laugh. "I'm not quite sure I do, myself."

"Then why?" Ron asked steadily. "What makes you so sure he's worth everything you've risked for him?"

"Nothing," Harry said softly; his voice quivered, and he knew it wasn't just because his breath was caught by the wind. "Nothing I can describe. But I do know that I've never felt this way in my entire life — and that should count for something. Even though nothing else came out of this."

Ron sounded surprised. "What do you mean? You and Malfoy are —"

"Were." Harry corrected, and sighed heavily. "It's over."

The finality of Harry's words hung in the air between them.

"It didn't seem that way in Lupin's class," Ron remarked quietly.

"Was it really that obvious?" Harry asked wryly.

"Harry, you declared in front of everyone how much your first duel with Malfoy meant to you," Ron said, rolling his eyes. "And Malfoy walked away from the duel without even casting a single spell — and believe me, that's definitely a first."

Harry thought back on the duel in Lupin's class that never was — how standing across from Draco and then watching him walk away had been one of the most exhilarating and devastating moments he had ever experienced. Draco certainly gave new meaning to the concept of wordless intensity.

"I know you don't like him, Ron," Harry started haltingly; he groped around for the right words to express what he really wanted to say. "And I don't blame you, because he's given you no reason to do that." His voice misted over slightly. "I used to see him the way you do now. But things changed. I saw a completely different side of him. And I realised that he's cruel because he's afraid of being vulnerable."

"That sure is a nice way to excuse someone for being a pompous, mean prat all the time," Ron remarked dryly.

"It isn't an excuse for the way he treats you or your family," Harry said firmly. "But it's everything Draco has been taught to believe in. And that made me... understand him, like I've never given myself a chance to before." He halted. "It's like you said — sometimes things look a lot different, depending on where you choose to stand."

"I can't believe you're quoting my own words back at me in defence of Malfoy," Ron said flatly; but Harry saw a lack of seriousness in his eyes.

"Sorry." Harry smiled sheepishly back at Ron. "What I'm trying to say is that — we've all stood on the ground, watching Malfoy from a distance and never really wanting to get any closer. But what happened between us made me see him for who he really was. Like how everything feels so different from the sky, when you're flying on a broomstick."

Ron slanted him a look. "Malfoy's broomstick?"

Harry blinked, and then burst out laughing. Ron just grinned, shaking his head. And everything seemed to melt back into place, the warmth and candor and humor that came so naturally to them. Harry felt a huge weight lift off his chest, and it was as if he could smile again that much more easily.

"Please, spare me the details," Ron groaned, waving his hand dismissively; then he sobered. "So what are you going to do now?"

"I don't know," Harry answered truthfully. Then, on an impulse, he asked, "What do you think, Ron?"

A surprised silence greeted his question. Ron glanced at him quizzically for a moment, although when the red-haired boy ascertained that Harry was indeed serious about asking his opinion, his expression changed to one of pensiveness.

"I spend a lot of time here," Ron finally said, once again; this time, a small curl lifted the sides of his mouth. "Watching the team practice, mapping out strategies and defences. Watching you fly during our Quidditch games, and sometimes wondering why you chose not to maneuver to the left, or right, whichever seemed the most obvious path to take." Ron paused, and took a deep breath; he looked directly at Harry. "But I never doubted that you knew what you were doing, Harry. Not once."

Harry felt his throat constrict with a rush of emotion; he could barely believe Ron had said what he did. Suddenly it seemed that things didn't seem so hopeless and bleak, that the swiftly fading light in the sky seemed to waver briefly and grow brighter; and for those transient moments the ache that gnawed deep inside him felt somewhat more bearable.

"Thank you," Harry said in a tight whisper.

Ron nodded, and said nothing; he didn't need to. He got to his feet, and beckoned to Harry, who stretched his legs and stood. As Harry got up, he lightly dusted off his lap, and with a final glance across the darkening field, turned and followed Ron.

Black petals fluttered to the ground in his wake, where they lay beneath the fall of dusk.

Hermione's brow was furrowed with annoyance as she made her way down the winding stairs that brought her down to the dungeons. She had sent an owl earlier that day to set up this meeting. A scroll was clasped in her hand, and she headed straight for one of the empty classrooms on the corridor leading to the Slytherin common room.

Draco, of course, was already there. The boy was nothing if not punctual, Hermione thought to herself as she cut Draco a pointed look, then closed the door behind them. And of course, utterly annoying.

"What is it this time, Granger?" Draco stood leaning against one of the desks, his posture at once relaxed and poised.

Hermione held up the scroll. "Your Imperius essay."

"And you couldn't possibly have had it owled over instead?" Draco gave her a sharp, searching look, as he reached over to take the scroll from her hand. "Courtesies aside, something tells me the reason you came all the way down here isn't just to ensure the safe return of my essay."

"You know, Malfoy," Hermione answered without missing a beat. "It's quite ironic how you're always so quick to notice things when it comes to other people. Pity you don't try as hard for yourself." She paused. "Or Harry."

She didn't miss the brief flash in Draco's eyes, before his expression quickly smoothed into one of indifference.

"This has nothing to do with Harry," Draco replied coolly. "Are we done?"

"No, we aren't." Hermione glared at him. "We are not done, Malfoy, because you do not just snatch Harry away from a life he's been so comfortable with, confuse him, then let him go as if nothing ever happened."

"Nothing ever did happen." Draco's tone was flat. "It might be helpful if you remembered that it was all the love potion."

"It might be helpful if you stopped lying to yourself." Hermione shot back, exasperated. "Malfoy, everyone saw the way you two behaved around each other in Lupin's class. And it was painfully obvious that neither you nor Harry are over this. Pretending nothing ever existed isn't going to make either of you any happier."

"Since when did you care for my state of happiness?" Draco challenged scornfully. "And do you think Harry was really ever happy to begin with? Yes, he has everything he could ever ask for. There was a time I did, too." His voice wavered slightly. "Or so I thought."

"What changed?" Hermione asked.

The sides of Draco's mouth curled upwards in a self-deprecating smile. "Harry."

"Then why are you walking away from him?" Hermione said quietly.

The silence echoed with an answer too painful to be spoken.

"Because everyone wakes up from a dream at some point in time." There was an underlying strain in Draco's voice that he could not hide. He looked at Hermione for a moment longer, before he gracefully pushed himself away from the desk. "Thanks for the scroll."

Draco neatly sidestepped Hermione, and headed towards the door. Hermione turned to watch him go; only when Draco was two steps away from the door did she speak up.

"One more thing," she said, her voice clear and calm. "Why did you concede?"

"It's none of your business, Granger," Draco barely turned, tossing the words over his shoulder.

"In most cases in wizarding history, a student conceded in a duel because he had to face his mentor," Hermione remarked. Draco ignored her, and reached out to open the door, just as Hermione added, "But not every time."

Hermione saw Draco's hand halt on the doorknob, and his knuckles were white with tension. She smiled grimly, and surged on.

"I thought that was rather interesting." Hermione crossed her arms and walked towards Draco, who was standing perfectly still, his entire posture strung like a bowstring drawn taut. "So I went to the library, did some research. And found some interesting information."

"Just let it go, Granger." Draco's voice was hoarse, sliced with thinly controlled emotion.

"Turns out," Hermione continued, unfazed. "There was a wizard's duel that ended when one conceded to the other..." She paused for effect, watching Draco's response closely. "Because they were lovers."

Even Draco, with his seemingly infinite ability to check his emotions and hide his feelings, could not suppress his reaction this time. He spun around, his eyes blazing as they met Hermione's; his mouth was pressed into a thin line, and he seemed torn between anguish and anger, the contrasting emotions so alike as they chased across his face like shadows.

Hermione was surprised at the raw turmoil she saw in Draco's eyes; she drew a deep breath, and finally ventured a question that reverberated to the corners of the empty classroom: "So, were they lovers?"

"Of course they were," Draco snapped, glaring at her. "You already did your research, why the hell are you asking me?"

"I never did any research," Hermione replied evenly, holding Draco's gaze. "It was just a hunch."

The silence that followed was like a rush of wind through an expanse of nothingness, hissing like a flame smothered by black waters. Draco's eyes darkened to the colour of ash.

"I don't know what you think you're doing, Granger." Draco's voice was low and intense, and he looked more angry than Hermione had ever seen him before. "Checking up on what I do, trying to guess what I'm thinking, or feeling —" Draco broke off, and his eyes glowed like coals scorched by a silver flame. "But whatever it is, you have no right to set Harry up for something he never asked for."

"Neither do you." Hermione's eyes sparked as she looked straight at Draco. "But that didn't stop you, did it?"

"You have no right," Draco repeated fiercely; but there was a fissure in his composure, a crack of weakness in his voice. "You don't understand."

"Maybe I don't," Hermione agreed. "I have no idea what kind of game you're playing. But I do know that history has a habit of repeating itself, especially for people who lack the originality to come up with something different."

Hermione noted the stunned expression on Draco's face; it was one of the very rare occasions that Draco Malfoy was found without a sharp retort. She reached past him to open the door.

"Just think about it, Malfoy," Hermione said as she deftly shouldered past Draco, and headed out of the door. "Neither of them won. Both lost."

"So, Harry, about Malfoy!" Seamus never seemed capable of keeping still; he bounced a few more times before flopping down on the sofa next to Harry. "When are you going to tell us exactly what's going on?"

The Gryffindor common room was warmly lit, and the fire blazed merrily in the hearth. Harry, however, found Seamus far too close for comfort; he half-heartedly swatted the Irish boy away, pleading the excuse of a tremendous backlog of readings to complete — but Seamus would not take anything less than the whole story for an answer; preferably embellished with as many sordid details as possible.

Finally, Harry sighed and set down his book. He looked wearily at Seamus. "All right, I'll tell you."

Hermione glanced up from her place at a nearby table, an eyebrow raised; Ron, sitting across from her, turned to look at Harry incredulously. Seamus cheered; Dean and Neville seemed to Apparate from the other end of the common room to settle at Harry's feet, gazing at him expectantly.

Harry stared at them, and shook his head in disbelief. "What is this, story time?"

"No." Seamus offered him an evil grin. "Kiss and tell!"

Harry shot him a withering look. "Very funny, Finnigan." Ron rolled his eyes, and Hermione smiled, unable to hide her amusement.

"Enough dancing around the bush, Harry," Dean prodded impatiently. "Come on, you can tell us what's going on."

"Details," Seamus chimed in again. "We want details."

"What do you all want to know?" Harry tilted his head, and a faint smile lifted his lips. "What's up with me and Malfoy, d'you mean?"

"No, Harry, we want to know all about how you got that wicked, sexy scar on your forehead, because it's not like we've read all about it in every wizarding textbook about a thousand times before," Seamus declared theatrically; he shot Harry a long-suffering look. "Of course we want to know about you and Malfoy, you dense old twat."

"Go on, Seamus," Dean glowered at the Irish boy. "Insult him some more, that'll put him in the mood for talking."

Harry chuckled in spite of himself. "Why the sudden interest in the details of my life, I wonder?"

"Oh, Harry!" Seamus feigned hurt. "We're always riveted by every smallest detail in your glamorous life. So would you please just tell us what's really going on between you and Malfoy?"

"Right." Harry took a deep breath, and sighed. He didn't even know where to begin. "You want the truth?"

Vigorous nods all around. Ron turned around in his chair to listen, and even Hermione set down her quill. Harry regarded the lot of them amusedly, and vaguely wondered what Draco would say if he knew that the Gryffindors wanted details of what had transpired between the two of them; or how his friends would react if he told them how exquisite Draco's mouth had tasted when they kissed.

"All right then," Harry began. "It all started when Malfoy came to me alone one evening, with a rather... unusual request. After listening to what he had to say, I was surprised, to say the least — but in the end, I agreed to help."

Seamus leaned forward eagerly; Dean and Neville exchanged wide-eyed glances, and hung on to Harry's every word. Ron looked dubious, as if he wasn't sure he wanted the sordid details as much as Seamus did; Hermione bit her lip and seemed to be trying not to laugh.

"You see," Harry continued, "Malfoy wants to continue his education post-Hogwarts, and for that he needs to achieve a certain number of extra credit points by doing additional assignments for each subject. For his Defence Against the Dark Arts extra credit project, Professor Lupin told Malfoy to prepare an in-class demonstration of an advanced duelling technique. To make it more realistic, Malfoy decided to ask a Gryffindor to take part in the duel."

"And why would you want to help him get extra credit?" Neville blurted out, looking chagrined.

"I didn't want to, at first," Harry admitted; in this lay a grain of truth. "But I've always been interested in wizard's duels, and this assignment would give me the chance to do more research and get credit for it, too. Malfoy also said that the extra credit points would be shared equally between us, and I won't rule out the chance that I might want to further my studies in the future."

"Or you could always sell the points to Hermione," Ron chipped in; at the point, Harry knew his friend had cottoned on. He grinned at Ron.

"I'm perfectly able to get enough points on my own," Hermione said archly. "If you're nice to me, Ron, I might just help you get a set, too."

"So you and Malfoy planned the entire duelling scene beforehand?" Neville asked.

"That's right," Harry answered. "We had to rehearse everything a lot, which is why I had to rush off on my own several times in the past few weeks."

"But," Dean frowned, "if it were part of a Dark Arts assignment, then why did Lupin look so surprised when Malfoy did that thing with putting his wand down in front of you? What was that called again?"

"Conceding," Harry replied; he thought quickly. "Lupin was surprised because he had no idea what kind of demonstration Malfoy was going to put up. Points were given based on originality, creativity and style of the duel — so Malfoy wasn't required to submit an outline of his project beforehand." He shrugged nonchalantly. "So that's the big secret."

"That's it?" Seamus cried, looking every bit like a child who had opened a box of chocolates to find they were all actually broccoli-flavoured. "And here I was thinking there was actually some decent scandal at the root of it all!"

"Well, sorry to disappoint you." Harry got to his feet, and gave them an enigmatic smile, eliciting another frustrated wail from Seamus. "I've a long day tomorrow, and there's Quidditch practice in the evening too. Bedtime story's over. Good night, kids."

Leaving the sound of Seamus's protests and Dean's guffaws behind him, Harry made his way up the staircase leading to the boys' dormitory. Deep down inside, he wondered why it was so much easier to spin a web of lies than to face the bitter truth.

Downstairs, Seamus crossed his arms and scowled. "You know, that didn't make very much sense at all."

Hermione smiled pensively. "Life rarely does."

Damn Granger for her sneaky plan to make him confess how he felt, Draco fumed. He stalked across the Slytherin common room straight into his dormitory, ignoring the puzzled stares he drew from the other Slytherins, and slammed the door behind him.

Damn Weasley for barging into storage rooms without knocking, and almost causing him the greatest embarrassment of his life by spilling the entire story about him and Harry in Dumbledore's office. Draco flung his scroll onto his bedside table, and threw himself onto the bed, glaring at the empty dormitory for being so cold and lonely.

And damn Harry for making him feel this way.

Draco reached under his bed, and pulled out the silvery, shimmering fabric of Harry's Invisibility Cloak. He turned it over in his hands, admiring the silky, almost liquid feel of the Cloak — it was one of the rare possessions that even he did not own. Draco had heard that it had belonged to Harry's father, James; probably Potter senior, even in his wildest imagination, would not have thought his precious Cloak would one day find itself in the hands of a Malfoy.

It wasn't that Draco didn't enjoy the power of invisibility. It had been exhilarating at first, a childhood dream fulfilled, and he had embraced it almost desperately: to be one with the darkness, to watch the world go by without being noticed.

But then, he had begun to feel that he was losing himself in the darkness, that it crept past the fringes of the Cloak and threatened to engulf him. This wasn't who he was — someone who spent nights lying flat on his back on the Quidditch field, gazing up at the black velvet sky and wondering why beautiful things could only be looked at from afar.

Think, don't feel.

The first lesson in being a true Malfoy. His father had made it easy for him to learn that; Draco's mouth curled humourlessly when he thought of how incensed his father would be to know that all his conscientious teaching had vanished the moment Harry Potter walked into Draco's life. Draco knew it wasn't just that night in the Forbidden Forest. It had started long before that.

It seemed like the Invisibility Cloak wasn't the only legacy that had run astray.

But Draco knew the Cloak didn't belong here, and it was as the constant chill of the Slytherin dungeon had already taken away some of the moonlit lustre of the glimmering fabric. Harry had given this to him, together with an ability to feel, and now Draco knew that he had to give it back.

He got to his feet wearily, slung the Cloak across his shoulders, and vanished. He slipped out of the dormitory and stealthily made his way out of the dungeon. It was less than an hour to bedtime, and the hallways were swiftly emptying of students as they scurried back to their own dormitories.

Draco started down the corridors, when suddenly he remembered there was somewhere else he had always wanted to visit on his own — the Restricted Section.

The library was closed, of course, but the doors, even those of the Restricted Section, had not yet been locked. Draco carefully let himself in, cursing Filch for not oiling the hinges, which creaked loudly to announce his intrusion. He waited and listened for a moment, but all else remained silent.

He'd only been in the Restricted Section twice before, when he'd received a legitimate note for a specific book shelved there, but never an open note. Both times, Madam Pince had lingered nearby, and under her watchful eye Draco hadn't any choice but to select the book he had permission to borrow and reluctantly leave.

Draco ran a finger idly across the neatly stacked books; the glass-paned windows overhead let in sparse slivers of moonlight, not enough to illuminate the finely stencilled titles on the books' spines, but enough to make a certain book with a blank spine stand out. Draco's heart skipped a beat, and his hand quivered as he reached out to take it.

The cover was blank as well, pure black, reflecting darkness. This copy was in a lot better shape than his own — at least the bindings were intact, Draco mused sardonically. And the pages were whole, which would have been convenient.

As he opened the book, a piece of paper slipped out, and fluttered to the floor. Dropping the Cloak, Draco bent to pick it up; then he blinked, and stared at it for a long time.

It was the note he had scribbled, asking Harry to meet him in the storage room in the Astronomy Tower right after Quidditch practice. Draco's fingers tightened on the scrap of parchment; it felt strange to find a piece of paper with his own handwriting on it, especially in a place he wasn't even supposed to be.

Still pondering, Draco slipped the note into his pocket — anything in his handwriting found in the Restricted Section was incriminating enough. He turned his attention back to the book, and flipped it open. His fingers automatically leafed to the middle of the book, looking for the page on Love Potions.

And when he found the page, he stared at it for even longer.

"Just so you know, I'm very disappointed in you, Harry," Seamus said mutinously, as the Gryffindor boys climbed into their beds. "I had such high expectations of some scandal."

"Seamus! Stop teasing poor Harry." Dean laughed as he extinguished the candles, filling the dormitory with darkness save the slant of moonlight through the window. "I told you from the start there was nothing going on. But did you believe me? No."

"But, but...!" Seamus spluttered indignantly. "Even you said that —"

"That I'm sure there was a reasonable explanation for everything!" Dean hastily cut in. "Anyway, you were the one who brought up the Malfoy thing."

Harry, who had just pulled the covers over himself, stopped dead mid-movement.

"Wait a minute," he interrupted, hoping his voice sounded casual enough. "What Malfoy thing?"

"Oh, nothing!" Seamus and Dean said in unison. Harry saw the flash of Seamus's white teeth in the darkness. "Good night, Harry! Sweet dreams!"

Harry glared at them suspiciously; then he sighed, and gave up. There didn't seem much point in forcibly extracting the truth about the "Malfoy thing" from Seamus and Dean, for their sanity as well as his, since it probably hit closer to the truth than either of them would have ever imagined.

Harry lay down and settled on his right side, his favourite sleeping position. He closed his eyes, trying to fall asleep.

"Hello, Harry," came a soft voice at his ear.

Harry's eyes flashed open, and he froze.

"Not asleep yet, are you?" came the familiar voice again.

"What the..." Harry bolted upright, looking around wildly and feeling for his glasses. He couldn't see anything but shadows all around him. He stretched out his hand, and it came into contact with something warm, like human flesh. "Gargh!"

"Harry?" came Ron's sleepy voice from the next bed. "You okay?"

"It's me, Harry, you idiot," came the disembodied voice, somewhere to his right. Harry frantically grabbed his glasses, put them on, and still saw nothing. He jumped as a hand laid itself firmly on his shoulder, and Draco's unmistakable voice whispered, "No need to wake your entire dorm for a welcome party."

"Uh, yeah," Harry called back softly to Ron. "Just, um, fly buzzing at my ear." This elicited a muffled, outraged noise from Draco; Harry couldn't suppress a grin. "It's okay — go back to sleep, Ron."

Harry waited for a few moments, hoping that the other Gryffindors would quickly drift off to sleep. For his part, Draco remained quiet, sitting on the bed next to him, still hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Harry could feel the warmth of Draco's body next to his, and it felt like a happy memory had come alive once again.

Harry turned his head towards Draco. "What are you doing here?" he whispered.

"I wanted to return your Cloak." Draco's voice was low and soft in his ear; Harry felt a shiver run through him as he realised how near Draco was to him.

"You couldn't have done that tomorrow instead?" Harry willed himself to remain detached, to show no emotion — he'd tried so hard to forget Draco, and he wasn't going to let the fact that Draco had sneaked into his dormitory and was sitting on his bed distract him. No, not at all.

There was a long, thoughtful pause; then, still sitting very close to him, Draco asked quietly, "Do you want me to leave?"

Harry closed his eyes, and the word fell from his lips: "No."

And he knew that Draco understood perfectly. Draco said nothing, and they both waited, for what seemed like forever, the silence in the room displaced only by the rhythmic snores from the other boys. Draco did not touch him, and even though Harry was tempted to reach out to Draco, he restrained himself. He had no idea how much time had passed, and the minutes that slipped by were of no consequence except that Draco was sitting with him through them all.

Until finally, Draco gracefully got to his feet; then he took Harry's hand, and wordlessly pulled Harry towards him. Harry slid out of bed, and Draco draped the Invisibility Cloak around both of them; padding quietly across the room, they silently exited the dormitory.

The moment they were out in the stairwell, Harry turned to Draco. "What —"

"I want to show you something." Draco's eyes glittered in the darkness, shining with a rare light of earnestness.

Harry gazed at him, torn between knowing that he should not go and yet, so badly wanting to; he sighed heavily. "This is insane, Draco."

"I know." Draco's quiet acknowledgement hung between them, filled with acceptance and anticipation.

Finally, Harry nodded once; and he could have sworn that he saw the edges of Draco's mouth lift slightly. But it was just the glimmer of a smile, like lightning silhouetted behind dense clouds. Then the blond boy turned and started down the stairs, not looking back — expecting, knowing that Harry would follow. And Harry did.

After they climbed through the portrait hole, Draco once again threw the Invisibility Cloak over them both. In silence they walked along the deserted corridors, until they left Gryffindor Tower and made their way into the open night, not stopping until they reached the edge of the Quidditch field.

The dark grass of the field sprawled in front of them. Draco let his hand slip from Harry's shoulder as he removed the Invisibility Cloak, and they leaned against the base of the Quidditch stands, next to each other.

"Seemed like we used to spend the most time together here," Draco remarked, gazing out across the field. "I used to hate Quidditch games for that reason."

"Because you couldn't stand the sight of me?" Harry asked; his tone was wry, but without rancour.

"That was what I tried to make myself believe, yes," Draco answered. "But it didn't explain why I couldn't stop looking."

Harry stole a furtive glance at Draco; the other boy seemed to be intently studying the landscape before them.

"You know, they say that colours are uniquely powerful symbols," Draco continued, still not looking at Harry. "Green represents success and prosperity. Red means strength and courage." He paused. "Black, discord and confusion."

"So is that why you gave me a black rose?" Harry asked, bitterness creeping into his voice.

"Can't you see?" Draco finally turned, and looked directly at him. "Sometimes I think you're just being deliberately obtuse, Harry."

"Well then," Harry said softly. "Why don't you tell me?"

A heartbeat of silence echoed in his ears; and for a moment, Harry wondered if Draco would answer him at all.

"The black rose," Draco finally said, meaningfully, "was what I thought I was looking for when I went into the Forbidden Forest that night. But what I found was you." He paused, and Harry forgot to breathe. "And I wanted to give you a black rose, because it helped me find what I was really looking for."

And the next thing Harry knew, Draco's hands were on his shoulders, pulling him closer; then Draco's lips closed over his. For a moment, Harry was too stunned to react; then everything flooded into place and he did the most natural thing in the world. He kissed Draco back.

The pounding of his heart roared in his ears; Harry forgot how to think, and only let himself feel, as he lost all sense of everything except the warmth of Draco's mouth on his, the way Draco's fingers tilted his face slightly to deepen their kiss. And it was feverish, and desperate, and everything that Harry wanted to remember how to feel all over again.

When they broke apart, they were both breathing harshly; Harry felt heat burning on his cheeks as he raised his eyes to meet Draco's. What he saw surprised him immensely — Draco's eyes shone like dark crystals in the moonlight, and they were filled with almost palpable anguish.

"What?" Harry whispered; he couldn't bring himself to ask What's wrong?, because deep down inside he knew that everything was, his being alone here with Draco in the middle of the night, kissing him; it was never meant to turn out this way, it should never feel this wonderful. But it did, and it was.

So he settled for, "What is it?"

"Nothing," Draco said breathlessly; for some reason, Harry didn't feel entirely too comforted. "It's just that I usually need a bit of time to come to terms with getting things wrong."

Harry's heart sank, but he pulled himself together to ask, "What are you talking about?"

"I never stopped being attracted to you, Harry," Draco said softly. "But when the love potion disappeared, I found that I could control the way I felt. So I thought I could make it go away by just pretending nothing ever happened between us." He drew a deep breath. "But I was wrong."

"After all this time?" Harry shook his head slightly. "Is that why you came to me tonight, out of the blue?"

"You saw the book too," Draco said, his voice low and intense. "In the Restricted Section. I was there tonight, and I know you'd been there before as well. You saw the entire verse on Love Potions." He paused, and looked straight at Harry. "You know why the spell of the love potion was broken."

Only when induced love is returned —

Harry bit on his lower lip; his fists clenched reflexively. So now Draco knew the truth.

— Is the mockery of the potion spurned.

Harry's voice quavered slightly as he spoke. "Is that why you brought me out here?"

"I needed to prove to myself," Draco said, his voice low and frayed, "that this is real."

"And is it?" The question spilled from Harry's lips, needing to be answered, once and for all.

Draco looked at him for a long moment, the moonlight turning the tips of his lashes to silver. He took a step closer to Harry again, and a devious smile curled his lips. "Why don't you show me again?"

There was no hesitation this time.

In a single movement Harry brought his lips to Draco's once more. Draco's mouth tasted like a familiar memory, like a special place he would always remember for the rest of his life. His arms went around Draco, holding him close against him as they kissed deeply, as he let go of everything that kept them apart and brought them together, until it was just the two of them, sharing this intimate moment only because they both wanted to.

Harry was vaguely aware of Draco urging him backwards, until his back came up against the pole that upheld one of the goal hoops above. It was hardly comfortable, but Harry didn't care about comfort right now. He slid to the ground, pulling Draco down with him, not breaking their kiss.

The grass was cool beneath them; Harry's fingers curled in the soft blades. He felt Draco's hands on his face, holding him in the kiss, not that he wanted to turn away. Ever. Harry closed his eyes, losing himself in the moment, not wanting to feel anything else but how perfect it was to have Draco so close to him, kissing him like there was no tomorrow...

...and he didn't even notice when Draco's hand slid from his cheek, not until Draco finally pulled away from him. Harry opened his eyes, dazed, as Draco extricated himself from their tangle of limbs; and then he saw that Draco had his wand in hand.

But before Harry could manage anything coherent, Draco pointed the wand at him and announced, "Manicas inice."

A flash of dark silver, like a trick of moonlight, followed by a sharp tug on his right wrist. Harry blinked, unable to believe his eyes.

"Draco, what the —" Harry broke off; he stared incredulously at the handcuff that chained him to the Quidditch goal post, then back at Draco again.

"Famous Harry Potter." Draco surveyed his handiwork proudly. "Property of Draco Malfoy."

"You can't be serious!" Harry reached out to touch the handcuff with his other hand. As he ran his fingers over the cool metal Harry could see Draco's name glinting in the moonlight.

"Nifty spell, isn't it, Harry?" Draco sounded smug. "I always learn from the best."

"Draco!" Harry was mildly alarmed. "You aren't going to leave me like this!"

"No," Draco answered, moving swiftly to lean over Harry; their noses touched, and Draco's lips brushed lightly against Harry's. "I'm going to stay right here with you."

And as Draco's mouth descended upon his once more, Harry forgot that he'd sworn this was a mistake that should never happen again. He forgot that walking away was probably the best thing he could ever do — if only he could, and not just literally. He gradually forgot that he was handcuffed to a goal post, and didn't even quite remember the rushed, whispered spell that later caused the chain of the handcuff to snap in half, one cuff still looped around his wrist.

He didn't really remember much except Draco.

Time passed, and neither of them noticed. The night grew deeper, and the moon hid behind a wisp of cloud, letting the stars shine more brightly against the velvet black sky.

When they finally lay next to each other on the grass, the hungry heat of kissing had given way to the simple warmth of companionship. Harry's hand crept along the grass to take hold of Draco's. It remained still under his for a moment, before curling to intertwine their fingers.

"So this is what you wanted to show me." Harry spoke quietly, gazing up at the vast night sky.

"Yeah," Draco turned his head slightly to look at Harry; his eyes shone in the darkness with a silver light. "What do you think?"

Harry turned to Draco, and smiled. "I like it."

He and Draco parted ways on the Quidditch field just as the first rays of dawn began to gleam on the edge of the horizon. There were no lingering embraces, no goodbyes.

Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower, and managed to sneak back into his dormitory before the other boys awoke. Probably no one would be able to tell that he hadn't slept a wink all night; he felt more refreshed than he remembered having been for a long time.

As usual, he went down for breakfast in the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione. He settled in his seat, and immediately his eyes searched the Slytherin table; his heart leapt when he saw Draco there. Draco glanced briefly in his direction; their gazes held, and even though Draco didn't acknowledge him in any way, in his eyes Harry knew that everything he remembered from last night was true.

Midway through breakfast the owl post arrived; a falcon owl swooped low overhead, and dropped a rolled-up piece of parchment in front of him.

Harry picked it up; and his breath caught in his throat when he saw what kept it curled into a small scroll. A ring, studded with amethyst and emerald.

Draco's ring.

Harry glanced up, straight across the room at Draco. The Slytherin was watching him evenly, his silver eyes intent on Harry's every movement.

Harry slid the ring onto his fourth finger, remembering the way Draco had done it, all those many nights ago. Then he looked down and unfurled the roll of parchment. He was greeted with a familiar sight — it was the exact same note that Draco had given him before.

Meet me in the disused storage room on the fifth floor of the Astronomy Tower, after your Quidditch practice tonight.

And as Harry read the note once more, he thought of all that they had been through — how they had met in the darkness, and strayed onto the unlikely path that had finally brought them together. Harry wasn't sure he understood; but it didn't matter. Maybe some things in life weren't meant to be. They just were.

Harry slipped the note into his pocket. Then he looked up at Draco, and nodded once; in response, a small smile curved the sides of Draco's mouth. Harry smiled back. He had plans tonight.

He wondered if he looked strange, sitting there with a broad grin on his face when everyone else was either munching on breakfast or reading their owl post. But he didn't care. Harry grinned cheerfully. Why shouldn't he smile?

After all, he had every reason to.