1  Under

I've tried so not to give in
I've said to myself, this affair, it never would go so well
But why should I try to resist when I know so well
That I've got you under my skin.
--Frank Sinatra, I've Got You Under My Skin

Harry Potter is sitting in class. He is copying down everything Professor Snape says; ingredients, antidotes, amounts. Pinch of this, ladle-full of that. His friends are sitting around him; Ron Weasley beside him, Hermione Granger in front; without looking he knows that Seamus Finnigan and Neville Longbottom are sitting behind him. Professor Snape has begun a new list of instructions and Harry is paying attention. The nib of his quill breaks as he presses on it too hard, as he always does; always leaving a mark on the page beneath. A chair scrapes against the floor on his left, and he watches Draco Malfoy excuse himself and walk out of the classroom. But just before he slips out the door, Draco turns back, looks at someone, touches his lips, and smiles.

Harry is so filled with jealousy he can't remember where he is.

How this all began Harry doesn't know; somewhere between years of sniping and the smell of Quidditch sweat he began to notice the sly charm of that boy. The way he always looks so composed, so cool and sure of himself. Harry has considered the very real possibility that he is attracted to the inherent badness Draco Malfoy embodies; he has considered this carefully and has decided that, since it hardly matters to anyone but himself what fantasies plague his brain, he will allow this indiscretion. And he allows it often.

He knows a great deal about Draco Malfoy. From watching him, he knows that within the first fifteen minutes of dinner Draco will loosen his tie and undo the top button of his shirt. When he's thinking he licks the corners of his mouth; he prefers evenings to mornings and tends to be cranky at breakfast. Being blond, he has only the lightest brown hair on his chest, just a little. Harry also knows that this hair is only a few shades lighter than that hidden under his robes and wool trousers. He knows this because he has taken overlong showers many times after Quidditch games in order to see Draco naked. He needs to charm his eyes to do this, but Draco never suspects that Harry can see as much as he can. He just looks blankly around, fumbles for a towel or soap or shampoo, and locks away all the images in his memory so he can to rifle through them later. He hates to admit it, but he can understand Colin Creevey's obsession with pictures. If he weren't so keen on keeping this secret to himself he would have bought some of Colin's pain-staking work: Draco playing Quidditch; Draco reading in the library; Draco laughing with his friends. There was one in particular of Draco watching Harry out of the corner of his eye that Harry covets, but knows he can't have it.

He isn't certain he hasn't developed an obsession, but he decides not to worry about this. He is young and these kinds of things are to be expected. He has read about it in a book about puberty in boys that he did not buy from a Muggle bookstore in London. He read the same thing in a Wizarding book on the same subject he found (and also did not buy) in Diagon Alley, and was thus reassured. Homoeroticsm, it said, is perfectly normal among hormonally-charged teenaged boys and is nothing to worry about. Should such tendencies continue into adulthood, they may be the sign of a genetic disorder for which there is no cure. Harry realizes that these books are old and that such statements are not fair, but all the same he finds them reassuring.

Knowing that Ginny Weasley had returned his invisibility cloak to him between Transfiguration class and Potions (why she asked to borrow it, Harry didn't know), and that it was tucked into the secret pocket on the inside of his school robes, Harry excuses himself.

It is not hard to find Draco Malfoy. He has not gone out of his way to conceal himself, and after peering into a couple of classrooms Harry finds him in the boys bathroom, his arm draped over the mantle of the old fireplace and his forehead pressed against it. He has removed his robe and it is handing from a peg on the wall; one of his shoelaces is untied. Concealed behind the invisibility cloak, Harry slips into the bathroom and tries to close the door quietly. Draco does not move.

Harry stands next to him, he can hear Draco breathing. His eyes are shut, left arm on the mantle, right hand dangling at his side, fist open. Harry wonders if he's unwell.

Draco shifts his face away, moves his right arm onto the mantle and buries his face in the crook of his left arm. From this vantage point Harry can see the dark freckle on Draco's neck and he feels his mouth water.

He is suddenly tempted; why else did he do this? Why else did he follow Draco here, walk toward him, stand within two feet of him, watching. What else did he expect to do? No one need ever know.

And why should he worry about Draco, why should he care if Draco is upset by what he does, or if he is scared? He should be scared. He has probably already gotten the Dark Mark (though Harry has never seen it; he focuses more on Draco's stomach, his chest, his groin, when he sees Draco without his clothes). Draco is a traitor and evil to the core. Everyone knows that. It's the wages of war, a prelude to the battles they will inevitably fight later on, after they graduate, when Draco begins killing Muggles and Muggle-born wizards. It's inevitable.

He won't hurt Draco, after all. Not yet.

He is about to lean forward when he stops himself. It's wrong, it's rape, it's sexual assault at the very least. What he is planning is the sort of thing that gets people into serious trouble, and it isn't something he can do. This is his dark side talking, it's the obsession. He's been spending too much time imagining this, and now the temptation is so great he can barely keep himself from slamming Draco against the wall and molesting him. Harry shakes his head and is about to walk away when Draco sighs heavily.

Harry can see his chest shifting upwards, his shoulders tense and then relax. All those muscles, those small motions. Harry lifts the cloak slightly away from his mouth and kisses Draco's neck.

Draco lets out a yelp and slams his head against the mantle, backing up toward the wall. "Who's there?" he asks, looking around. He is breathing rapidly, his arms are spread out, as if trying to feel for an invisible attacker. He looks afraid for a moment, and then says, "Ginny?"

Something inside Harry's head feels as if it's exploded; he can see the shrapnel and blood in front of his eyes. Ginny. Invisibility cloak. Draco Malfoy. He feels ill and remembers that Ron has been worried about Ginny; she has been secretive lately and Ron suspects she has hooked up with Seamus on the sly, though Seamus and Ginny bother deny this. Harry remembers seeing Ginny humming to herself in the common room and for the first time in his life he wants to hit her. He wants to slap her across the face and watch her bleed, watch her cry. He feels so jealous he thinks he can feel it dripping out of his ears.

He runs forward and punches Draco in the face, hard. He forgets that he's invisible and dances around him, punching him, kicking at his legs, shoving him into the wall and pulling his hair. He wants Draco to die painfully now, he wants him to crumble into dust at his feet. And he does crumble; he is on his knees in front of Harry, his head is hanging down and he just waits for more abuse. He takes it well, he's like a rag doll, he just flops this way and that as if he doesn't care. Harry has never seen him like this before and it makes him pause, but only for a second.

It's not fair. Ginny Weasley. He's not supposed to feel so betrayed by people like her, and he's not willing to see the ironic justice of it. He pretends he doesn't notice that she has (had) a crush on him for years; he won't laugh even wryly at the fact that Ginny has taken up with the object of Harry's secret affection. He is so blind with rage he forgets that there is such a thing as right and wrong, forgets about sides and morality and the issues that plagued him ten minutes before.

He grabs Draco by the front of his shirt and forces him up on his feet; he pushes him hard against the wall and kisses him.

Blood and teeth, tongues and lips. Draco's arms are limp at his sides, but Harry grabs his wrists anyway, pins them above his head. For all the violence of it, for all the anger Harry sees as colours in front of his eyes, he kisses Draco carefully. In spite of the anger there's something else there he wants, and the drive in his chest isn't as violent as the one in his head. He sucks on Draco's bottom lip and feels a flap of skin there that's been ripped free. He licks Draco's upper lip and feels a hot swipe across it where it must have gotten caught between Harry's fist and Draco's teeth. Draco's tongue is in Harry's mouth and his teeth scrape against Harry's lips. Harry can feel the slight grate of stubble against his chin, soft and light brown, almost blond like the trickle of hair under Draco's belt. He shoves his hips hard into Draco's and feels the moan in his mouth before he hears it.

What this means he doesn't know and he doesn't care. He has a new mission now, and he doesn't even stop to think what the consequences might be. It didn't matter anymore. He is jealous of Draco for taking Ginny from him, he is jealous of Ginny for being able to touch Draco when Harry can only watch him. If everyone else is breaking the rules, he will break them too.

Draco's arms stay above his head even when Harry doesn't hold on to them. He fumbles with Draco's belt and hauls down his trousers, but touches his stomach first. His eyes are closed while his slips his hands up under Draco's shirt and slides his fingers along the curve of his ribs. Draco head is thrown back against the wall, throat exposed, eyes shut. His wrists are resting on top of his head as Harry's hands settle on his hips.

Harry licks Draco's throat as his fingers follow a light line of hair down between Draco's legs and Draco moans again. He is pulsing and hot between Harry's fingers and Harry is breathing too fast. He is grinding his groin against Draco's hip and Draco's is pushing against him, his back still pinned against the wall and Harry's left hand pressed hard against his shoulder, his right hand an indelicate fist around Draco's cock.

Draco comes with Harry's lips on his throat, and his head cracks against the wall. Harry feels wet heat on his hand and he realizes what he's just done; for a second he feels terrible, he feels guilty, but Draco is still rubbing his hip against Harry, and Harry stops caring when he feels Draco's lips on his earlobe. He doesn't even wonder if the invisibility is still covering him. He shudders and tears spring to his eyes when he comes.

They are panting, Draco's hands are pressed flat against the wall on either side of him. Harry can feel Draco's chest against his own he feels Draco's forehead rest on his shoulder. His own hands have slipped to Draco's bare hips and Draco's skin has grown cool. It gets downright cold in these bathrooms; stone walls and a draught and Draco has goose pimples on his thighs. His breathing is damp and he coughs. There is blood on his shirt and Harry can see the bruises forming on Draco's neck; whether they were from his mouth or his fists, Harry isn't sure.

He steps back, watching Draco struggle for his balance for a second and then lean back against the wall, eyes still shut tight. Harry feels panic settling into his chest, he feels as though there isn't enough air, that Draco is sucking it all in with his very red and ragged mouth. What has he done? Harry swore he wouldn't touch Draco, molest him, make him bleed and come and cry. Is he visible? Does Draco know who he is? How could Harry have betrayed Ginny like that, even if he doesn't approve of secret entanglements, her sly romance with the worst of their rivals? Even if he's jealous? How could he, upright citizen that he is, have done this to someone because they didn't reciprocally obsess over each other (anymore)?

He runs out of the bathroom, pulls off the invisibility cloak and promptly throws up on the floor of the corridor. There is evil lurking in all of us, he thinks, but the idea isn't reassuring. He goes to the hospital wing and complains of stomach flu and insomnia; Madam Pomfrey gives him a sleeping draught and sends him back to Gryffindor tower. Homoeroticsm, Harry chants to himself like a mantra, is perfectly normal among hormonally-charged teenaged boys and is nothing to worry about. He sleeps fitfully in spite of the draught, and dreams about being stuck in a pit twenty miles deep and two feet wide. When he looks up to see moonlight it starts to rain.

He doesn't see Draco until late the next day, at dinner. His tie is loosened and the top button of his shirt is undone. He looks immaculate and shows no sign of the beating he took the day before. Harry is staring at him because Draco is beautiful, Draco is devastating, Draco breaks him in half now that he has broken Draco and seen him collapse like that. Harry is staring at him because he can't entirely believe that it really happened; the entire event has taken on a kind of mythical quality, dreamlike. He believes in his own violence because he can still see the scrapes on his hands. He considers healing them over himself but hesitates, sucks on one of his knuckles, rubs his fingers over the marks. Without them he is afraid he will forget everything, and horrified as he is with himself he doesn't want to forget.

Draco looks up once from his dinner. His face is expressionless. Ginny is looking down through the whole meal, and Harry has no appetite.

As they wander back to their dorms after dinner, there is a moment when Harry could lag behind, he could catch Draco on his way to the dungeons and ask him if he was okay. Apologize. Something. But he doesn't.

2  A Nice Boy

3 Children with Knives

 Draco Malfoy knits his fingers together. There is an hour yet before dinner and he needs some time to think. He is sitting in his room, staring at the light bruises on his wrists and half-listening to the voices in the common room echoing up the stairs. He listens for his name, for any names or threats, and for footsteps approaching the door.

Draco is always paying attention, he is always listening, even when he's lost in his own thoughts. He is always cautious. This is something Gryffindors are not, and Draco has learned to pity them for it. They are walking targets, torches burning in the night, stupid moths spinning around and around a flame until it singes them. When the dust settles they will be the dead ones, the heroes stabbed in the back by their best friends, their hearts torn open and their legs cut out from under them. Sometimes they even do these things to themselves; they are children with knives, running.

He hears nothing interesting from the other side of the door, so he lays down on his bed with his hands on his stomach. He can almost feel Potter's hands on him, hours later. The edge of those glasses pressed against his cheek, the coldness of the wall on the back of his thighs, Potter's surprisingly smooth face, his bitten-down fingernails: it echoes through him like sound and he feels as though he is vibrating with the tune of it. The marks are all gone now; cleaned up with a few words and a wave of Draco's wand. He's still a bit stiff and sore, but he likes the feel of it; he flexes his arms a little just to get the jolt of pain running through his shoulder. It's a reminder that it was real, it really happened. He has not stopped to consider exactly what it means for him. He needs time to think.

He closes his eyes and all he can see is Potter's face, his bare neck, his left shoulder free from the cloak and the rest of him invisible but pressed against him. He can feel the friction of Potter's trousers on his bare hip, breath on his face, fingers against his stomach, fingers trailing down and gripping Draco's cock as if it were his own. He breathes in and thinks about Potter's ragged old jumper and his flushed skin. Draco can still smell him. Just a piece of the memory makes him unbearably hard.

Invisible lips on his neck. Why? Ginny Weasley's breasts taste like damp cotton and her nipples are raspberry pink. Is it that knowledge that drove Potter into such a fury? He knows it must have something to do with her. Was it some kind of twisted revenge? In spite of his avid and sustained disinterest, everyone knows that Ginny Weasley is Harry Potter's property. Is that it? Was this about pissing on territory? Draco can't make sense of all the pieces. Why the anger, the violence? Why the lust? Why the kiss? Why the frantic groping in the boys' bathroom at eleven o'clock in the morning? He exhales and remembers coming in Harry Potter's hand. There are answers in that, but not to those questions.

Draco cannot stop thinking about it.

That afternoon, after Potter had stormed off and thrown up on the floor outside the potions classroom, he saw Ginny Weasley in the corridor and they looked at each other blankly. He wanted to ask: what do you know? For the first time he knows that her submissiveness is a form of power; he can't read her through that empty stare of hers and he knows she can't read him.Did she tell him? And then, did he tell her? He doesn't know what to think, but he knows that Harry moans into his kisses and that he keeps his eyes open when he comes.

Draco didn't write Ginny a note in Arithmancy class as he usually does; he didn't want to meet her later in her room, or in a quiet corridor, or under the stairs. He was too distracted for that, and if she told anyone about their arrangement notes like that would no longer be safe.

Their arrangement may be null and void now. Possibly because someone else knows the truth, or possibly because Draco doesn't need it anymore, doesn't need her anymore. He still wants to think all of this though. His brain feels so disorganized.

Harry Potter. He thinks about a half-invisible body and feels even more disorganized. Harry Potter is complete, he is a hundred shades of primary colour and a thousand words for yes. He imposes his will on the world without even noticing, without considering the consequences; he takes what he wants even in spite of himself. Even in his sleep he commands his dream world; he whispers no, and I won't, and you can't do that, unlike Draco, whose midnight babble must consist entirely of please and can I and yes, yes, whatever you want.

Harry Potter is a force to be reckoned with, a finished product. By comparison, Draco thinks of Ginny Weasley as a kind of blank slate, a test model, a generic woman with whom he may experiment freely; he touches her breasts and licks her navel, runs his fingers over her thighs until he feels something stir inside himself. She never reacts, she never says anything. She is all white; or simply the lack of any colour at all.

Draco has had need of a blank slate lately.

Women's bodies are so soft, rounded even on a skinny girl like Ginny. They smell clean and light with an undertone of damp fertility that reminds him of moss. Toss something inside them and it will grow. The small of a woman's back is, without a doubt, the most perfect thing Draco has ever seen. Women are objectively attractive, and no matter how hard he tries Draco can't justify his impotent interest in them. He explains this to himself in a number of ways: he is hard to please, he is an aristocrat; he has particular tastes. Possibly there is some kind of medical problem, but he is not willing to verbalize his concerns in that regard just yet.

Instead he keeps trying to please himself with Ginny's body, finding angles and lighting and poses that will inspire him to lust. Not overwhelming lust, but a reasonable desire for the generic woman Ginny turns into when he has her in his control. When she stops being Ginny and becomes some nameless manikin of a woman who obeys his every command, a lovely woman, a perfect woman, a specimen. He commands with his hands, gently, he moves her arms and takes off her clothes as if she's a rag doll. Until today Draco was certain that she would tell no one, because she is afraid of what he might reveal.

He does not have sex with her, because even he can see that that would be wrong. Also, he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to break her perfectly indifferent state, her passive neutrality. He feels somehow that sex would interfere with his goals with her; he is afraid that if he has sex with her he will no longer find her mysterious enough to continue his experiments with her. He thinks that sex would break the unspoken contract they have between them. He doesn't want to be like her brother. He is terrified that he will try to have sex with her and will not be able to perform, or that he will not enjoy it. He has a lot of reasons but he's not sure which is the most or the least true.

Conscience aside, Draco knows that in actual fact he has no power over Ginny beyond what they both imagine. He has one shred of knowledge, but in the harsh light of day it is useless to him. He knows that Bill Weasley has been molesting his little sister since she was seven years old. He knows that no one knows about it but the two of them, and now himself. He knows that there is no end to this torrid affair in sight, either. But no one would believe him if he said so. They would consider it slander and disregard it. Even his contacts at the Daily Prophet would brush him off; no one wants to read about that sort of thing in a family paper. At best they would consider the possibility that he was telling the truth and then reject it ("Bill Weasley? Never!"); at worst they would accuse Draco of having a truly sick mind ("Just like his father."). This fact doesn't seem to occur to Ginny. Maybe she's just hedging her bets, maybe she's more cautious than he normally gives her credit for. Or maybe she wants something from him too.

Right now Draco can still feel Potter's lips against his throat and he is feeling hungry. He has never felt so hungry in his life and he thinks he might not be able to think or speak or walk properly because of it. He unbuttons his pants and strokes himself roughly, thinking of nothing but Potter's hands, the texture of Potter's trousers against his hip. He masturbates as quietly as he can and thanks God that he is alone. If he actually is.

"I never know if I'm alone," Ginny said once. Draco had arrived on time as usual, and with a flourish. He was in a good mood; he was grinning and he asked her if she was sure she was alone as he walked in. Ginny was cryptic and morose, she sounded angry when she said it. She had her arms wrapped around herself like she was cold and she hunched up her shoulders.

"Why's that?" Draco asked. He was locking the door behind him and Ginny was looking out the window.

"Harry's invisibility cloak. You can't tell if he's there or not." She wasn't paying attention, she said this as if he was supposed to know already. The moment after she said it she rolled her eyes. "Forget it," she said. She's not much good at keeping secrets that aren't her own.

His first few days with the invisibility cloak he did what anyone in his place would have done; he spied on a teacher's meeting, overheard private conversations between Dumbledore and McGonagall, Dumbledore and Snape, Dumbledore and Hagrid. He sneaked into the Ravenclaw girls bathroom and watched seven different girls in the shower. He watched three different couples groping each other in vacant classrooms, watched professor Vector draft out an Arithmancy test, complete with answers. He saw two fourth year Hufflepuff boys heat up and then inhale an illegal substance.

On the fifth day he followed Harry Potter into his dorm room and watched him take off his robes, his jumper, his shirt, and then drop to the floor in just his trousers and his undershirt and do sixty push ups, counting out loud. In spite of the fact that he does not have his invisibility cloak, it did not seem to occur to him that he might not be alone.

On the seventh day Draco sat precariously on the footboard of Potter's bed, watching Potter tossing back and forth in front of him. That was the first time he saw Potter roll over onto his back, his hand moving under the blankets. He made a desperate sound in the back of his throat and arched his back, and then curled up on his side and fell asleep. Draco watched him for a long time.

On the eighth day Draco fell asleep on the floor between Potter's bed and the wall, and woke up to the sound of Potter shouting in his sleep. No, I wont! and then you can't do that!

On the evening of the tenth day he nearly ran into Potter on the way into Gryffindor tower, and then followed him outside, where Potter stood for a long time by the lake with his hands in his pockets.

Draco gave the cloak back only hesitatingly, when he knew that Ginny wouldn't be able to pretend to have it very much longer. He mourned the loss of it, and felt so unbearably on display after that, so horribly visible, that he needed to leave class to put himself back together. He doesn't know why he is so intrigued by watching, by watching Harry Potter; he wonders if he is a homosexual or just a voyeur. He never went back to the Ravenclaw girls' shower.

He felt a kiss on his neck while he was alone in the boy's bathroom down the hall from the potions classroom. Being touched by someone (something) while alone was off-putting, but after a moment he realized that there was an invisibility cloak roaming free in Hogwarts, in the hands of Ginny Weasley.

"Ginny?" he said. But he knew the second after he said it that Ginny Weasley would never kiss him like that.

Potter. He knew it before he felt the first punch knock him to his knees. For what was he being punished? For stealing the cloak, even temporarily? For spying? For standing two feet from Potter while he masturbated, for enjoying it? For wanting to touch him? For touching Ginny? For blackmailing her? For telling his father what Ron Weasley had told Potter about upcoming raids on Malfoy Manor? For enjoying the punishment Potter was meting out? Draco doesn't know. He thinks about Potter's lips and the taste of his own blood, about the fireworks behind his eyes as Harry curled his fingers around Draco's penis like it was precious.

He thinks about Harry's hands and Harry's breath and the sound of voices downstairs in the common room, he strokes himself roughly and carefully the way Harry did, he imagines that his hand is Harry's and moans.

It occurs to Draco that it is completely possible that Harry has followed him up to his room. There is nothing saying he has not been standing there at the foot of his bed ever since Draco walked in and hung his robe up on the peg beside the door. What would stop him, after all? Draco imagines that he's there and whispers his name. He imagines that Harry is watching him, that Harry has been waiting to see Draco do this while thinking of him and feels a tug of something so deep inside himself he wonders if he's been sliced open. He moves his hips now for Potter, there is a demand in his head and he can't help but obey it. Potter wants to see, he wants to see everything. Draco wishes desperately that Potter would touch him; even just put his hand on Draco's thigh, just to let him know that Draco is right, he is watching. But he doesn't even need to. Draco just knows. He lifts his hips up off the mattress, his hand moving frantically, and he says Harry as he comes.

4 Pantomime of Surprise

Draco Malfoy feels victorious because he is. He has won.

He realizes that no one else will say, "Draco Malfoy beat Gryffindor at Quidditch." He knows that they will say "the Slytherin team beat the Gryffindor team." That's how the politically correct say it, even though it's not entirely true. Everyone knows that Quidditch isn't really a team sport at all; while the Beaters and Chasers bat silly balls around and keep the crowd entertained, the game is really up to the Seekers. The rest of the Slytherin team played so badly the Gryffindors were beating them by one hundred and ten points when Draco caught the Snitch. So he won, he beat them all.

He feels victorious and he is waiting for Harry Potter. He has been waiting for twenty minutes on the bench inside the Quidditch changing room, slowly unlacing his boots and rolling up his robes and padding. He savours his victory and takes his time, waiting until everyone else has cleaned themselves up and left. Secretly he hopes that Potter will storm into the changing room in a rage, his robes torn off and hair wild. Draco hopes Potter will be so angry with him for winning that he will haul Draco up against these old plaster walls and press up against him, lips firmly attached to Draco's throat. In his darkest fantasies he hopes that Potter will throw him onto his knees and force his penis into Draco's mouth, but everyone has dark fantasies they hope for and are terrified of. More than twenty minutes have passed and Potter has not turned up, so Draco takes off the rest of his clothes and steps into the shower alone.

Perhaps Potter went straight to his dormitory to weep into his pillows. There was a strange look on his face when Draco caught the Snitch, when he floated down to the sandy centre of the Quidditch pitch with it tight in his hand. Disappointment, surprise, and still that undertone that Draco saw in him before; guilt, lust, terror. The floor is cold under Draco's feet, the puddles of water left by the others have all drained and left soap slicks against the tile. The water is slightly too hot but Draco doesn't care. He feels invincible.

He is not yet certain if he is a homosexual. He has imagined a thousand possible scenarios in the hopes of testing his resolve; Crabbe and Goyle do not interest him sexually, but that is not a surprise to him. He has imagined an array of Ravenclaw boys in various tempting positions with only limited success. The younger Slytherins don’t particularly interest him either, though a couple of the more aggressive boys would do in a pinch. None of his teachers, male or female, appeal to him in any context, but Harry Potter is still a sure fire explosion of desire in Draco's brain. How could he not have seen it before? And what does it mean?

He is somewhat repulsed by a series of things: the title 'homosexual', the limp-wristed stereotype, someone's penis in his mouth, with the possible exception of Potter's, the logistics of anal sex, which his father calls 'buggery' in a nasty tone. He couldn't find any books on the subject in the school library (surprise surprise) and so he sent away for a few. The first arrived several days ago and he has already finished it. The positions look uncomfortable but he understands the gist. He wondered if it hurt and the book assured him that, done properly, it would not hurt overmuch. Also, he learned that it is not unsanitary, unhealthy, or even an unusual desire, and that it is even quite pleasurable under the right circumstances. He has done some experimentation on his own and knows this to be true.

And then suddenly it happens, just when he has given up hope; Draco catches a glimpse of the desolate Potter out of the corner of his eye while he stands under the water, trudging toward the showers with a towel around his waist. Draco turns his back to him so that he can pretend that he thinks he is alone. It's the only way, and Draco can play this game. If Potter's resolve is greater than his, Draco may have to resort to more dramatic measures.

Potter is silent and it's easy for Draco to pretend he doesn't know he's there. He hears the water switch on behind him but rubs his hands over his ears. His arms and legs are tingling; already he's becoming aroused just at the idea of Potter seeing him. Looking at him. Ever since he gave the invisibility cloak back he has been imagining Potter everywhere; in his corridors, in the common room, curled up at the edge of his bed. Draco even left room for him there, shifting over to the right side so that Potter can stretch out his legs. Stay, he said sometimes, quietly.

But he never knows for sure if Potter is there, and sometimes he thinks he has been imagining the whole thing. Perhaps he's never there, never watching. He might sit up in his tower with his friends and try to wash the memory of Draco out of his mind. Ten days ago at eleven o'clock in the morning Draco was backed up against the wall in the boys bathroom just down from the Potions classroom with his trousers around his ankles and Potter's tongue in his mouth; after that, nothing. Not a word.

He thought about it often. He thought about it first thing in the morning when he woke up almost painfully hard and longing for Potter's hands again; he thought about it at meals when he could see Potter every time he looked up. He thought about it in class when they did everything the way they always did; take notes, mix this and pour that, ask no questions. Potter left him alone so much that even Crabbe and Goyle had noticed.

"Was there a duel you won that we didn't know about?" Goyle asked a few days ago.

"No," Draco said. He shrugged. "I guess we both just got bored." Secretly Draco is terrified that when Potter threw up after stormed out of the boys bathroom in terror, he did it because he found Draco disgusting.

Draco pretends he doesn't know that Potter has taken the shower directly across from him. He can see Potter's feet on the tile, soap pooling around them. He is facing Draco and Draco decides that this is as a good a sign as any. He is rinsing soap off of his body, standing facing the water with his legs firmly apart. He rubs his hands across his hips and over his backside, resting his fingers in the small of his back. For a moment he is nervous, he has stage fright, but he steels himself.

While he squeezes shampoo into his hand Draco sneaks a surreptitious look behind him, and sees that Potter's glasses are still on his face, his body only half under the water and his hair dripping. He is fixated, hands hanging loose at his sides, his mouth is open. Draco closes his eyes. He feels beautiful, he feels like he's glowing. He turns to face Potter with his eyes still shut and leans his head back, letting the water run over him. It doesn't feel too hot anymore, it feels like light. He rubs the shampoo through his hair slowly, wondering about his own stamina, wondering what someone else's come tastes like and if he'll get a chance to find out . He can feel Potter's eyes burning a trail across his body and he follows it with his fingers; his neck, his chest, stomach, his undeniable erection. He strokes himself a few times and stops. He wonders if Potter notices that Draco is breathing too fast to know that he's alone.

Draco wants to see Potter's reaction, if there is a reaction, but he knows that he can't open his eyes. It will ruin everything. So he steps under the water and lets the soap wash out of his hair and into his face, across his body. It's now or never.

He turns and faces the wall, his hands on the tile just below the shower head, his head hanging down, legs spread. Come on, he thinks, this couldn't be easier. Just when he starts to wonder if maybe Potter doesn't want this the way he does, he feels a very warm body against him, a very firm erection slip between his legs, wet arms wrap around his waist, and a pair hungry lips kissing his neck. He is so relieved he almost cries.

Potter's hands rove over him; his chest, arms, stomach, his thighs, they clamp onto his hips for a moment has Potter grinds himself between Draco's legs. Draco leans his head back on Potter's shoulder when Potter's hand grabs on to Draco's penis and strokes him. He shifts his hips against Potter's grinding and now Potter is kissing his face.

Before Draco knows it Potter has spun him around, pressed him back against the tile, and is kissing him on the mouth. Draco isn't sure if he's supposed to keep his eyes shut, but he does anyway. As he wraps his arms around Potter's waist and draws him closer he can feel the too hot water pouring across his back. He follows it down Potter's shoulders, across his hips, and over his ass, which all feel beautiful under his fingers, better than Draco imagined they would. He massages Potter roughly, as roughly as he can under the circumstances. Potter is moaning again and still kissing him, one hand on the back of Draco's neck and the other stroking Draco's pulsing erection. There is a desperation to all this that Draco can feel too.

He opens his eyes for a moment when he feels Potter take his hand off his neck and watches him kneel down, one hand still stroking Draco's penis and the other now sliding down Draco's left thigh. He wants to shut his eyes to maintain their false anonymity but he can't; he watches Potter lean forward kiss his aching cock, first along the side, and then on the tip. His heart is pounding in his ears and he doesn't know what to do with his hands. Potter opens his mouth and Draco can feel his tongue sliding along the underside and shuts his eyes again. He is moaning now too.

This is not the first time he has had his penis in someone's mouth, but this is the first time it meant so much to him. The fact that it's Potter makes it a hundred times better somehow; the suction of his mouth feels blissful and Draco wants to stay like this forever. Potter's fingers are gripped around the base of his cock and his left palm is pressed against Draco's hip as if to steady him. But Draco doesn't move; he is half afraid that Potter will get spooked and run off against the slippery tile, leaving Draco on the edge of orgasm and aching for more of Potter's lips, Potter's uncontrolled moaning that vibrates against his more than eager flesh.

He comes harder than he ever has in his life, and he is almost entirely certain that he says Potter's name when he does. Not his last name either, his first name; that's what he's been doing lately on his own, because he is almost half hoping to be discovered and accused. But now that it's really happening he is embarrassed. There are no more secrets now; Potter knows what Draco knows. They are not anonymous, they have never been anonymous, invisibility and the pantomime of surprise notwithstanding. He collapses forward and Potter catches him; he breathes hard into Potter's neck and all he can hear now is the strangely loud gurgle of water going down the drain and Potter gulping in air. Draco's eyes are shut again. He slides his fingers into Potter's wet hair and kisses his mouth. He is gentle about this, he licks Potter's wet bottom lip and rubs his thumb along Potter's neck. Potter kisses him back as if he has never done this before. He is clumsy when he's not in charge.

Draco leans back against the tile, his arm wrapped loosely around Potter's waist. He feels very tired suddenly and sore, the impact of the Quidditch game washing over him. Potter stands up quickly, grabs his towel, and starts to walk away.

"Potter," Draco says. He stops dead but doesn't turn around. Draco feels as though he has just broken something, but he can't fathom how Potter could possibly imagine that Draco didn't know it was him. "Meet me later." Draco is nervous now. Potter will not look at him. "Meet me by the statue of the hump backed witch. Tonight, nine o'clock. Can you do that?" He asks because he wants to hear Potter's voice, just once.

"Um," Potter manages.

"Nine o'clock," Draco says firmly. He is shaking but he can't let Potter walk away now.

"Okay," Potter says. He sounds terrified. He doesn't turn back.

Draco waits until nearly half ten, but Potter doesn't show up by the statue. He doesn't find out until the following morning what the Gryffindors were told after dinner; Bill Weasley has been murdered.

5 Lake Ophelia

The water is wide
I cannot get o'er
and neither have I wings to fly

Ginny Weasley looks up at the clock. It's nearly eleven. They tucked her into bed half an hour ago and kissed her forehead, blew out the candles and told her to sleep well. They were all sad for her, they looked at her worriedly, they pitied her. The older girls love tragedy; it's all they ever read about in their romance stories. Tragic loves, tragic deaths, lost, lonely damsels standing on misty ledges about to leap to their untimely and equally tragic demises. Right now Ginny knows that they are stealing her pain and trying to make it their own, trying to water it down and turn it into a communal commodity. Right now she knows they are sitting around the common room gossiping, how terrible, how sad, how tragic, struck down at the prime of his life, what was he, twenty-nine? Thirty? At least he wasn't married. At least he didn't have children. Oh, poor Ron, poor Ginny. Poor us.

She did not go to class today. She woke up early, skipped breakfast, and went for a long walk along the edges of the forest. She picked flowers everywhere she went. It is spring and flowers are cropping up everywhere; lily of the valley and crocuses and daisies and butter cups. She brought heaps of them back to her room and put them all in jars she took from the kitchens, and then went out to get more.

She missed lunch too, but got dragged to dinner by a concerned-looking Harry, who sat her next to him and couldn't seem to stop touching her. Not that she minded that so much. Harry is so good, so nice. Once she finished her meal she leaned her head against his chest and he hugged her for a long time. He smelled like Quidditch brooms and her fingers still smelled like stems.

She felt this coming in her bones, she just knew it. The last time she saw Bill he ruffled her hair and smiled and said, "don't let Arithmancy scare you, Ginny." That was it. A hour before he had pulled her into his old bedroom and pressed his wet face into her stomach and said, "You know I love you, don't you?" She didn't respond. She didn't know what to say. He was doing dangerous work these days and he was scared. He had written her a letter a month before that said, "sometimes we do things we're not proud of." She wasn't sure what he meant. She knew his work was dangerous but she didn't know it would have him doing unethical things; did he kill people, bribe them, hold wands under their throats and force information from them? She had no idea what he was doing, really, but after that she wondered.

He barely touched her over the holidays. There was always the risk of being caught, but since Ginny had always had a room of her own there were ways to avoid it. But that holiday, that last holiday, he barely touched her at all. When he did it was only coldly, the way he touched Ron or George or Percy. He hugged her twice; once just after he first walked through the door and once just before he left. She felt as though she'd done something wrong and cried herself to sleep.

And now he's dead.

The details are sketchy, since most of his work was Unspeakable. Freezing assets, inspecting funds, you'd think that banking was a safe enough business, but not when the smell of war is so strong. Ron thinks he must have found something important, that that's why this happened. Dumbledore agrees. They weren't even sure who the man was, the one who did it. Death Eater, perhaps. Hit man. He name is Boswell and they've captured him, he will go to Azkaban. But until he did this his record was clean. How Boswell could possibly have known Bill's whereabouts was beyond them; no one knew where he was living, not even family was supposed to know.

Everyone was very quiet and very blank-faced when they revealed the news; Professor McGonagall put an arm around both her and Ron and hugged them while they cried. Ron knew that Ginny had received a letter from Bill four weeks ago, that there had been a post mark. She didn't tell anyone about the letter because the contents were private. No one seemed to remember this fact except for Ginny, who said nothing.

Ginny knows whose fault it is that Bill is dead. It's hers.

She gets out of bed and pulls off her nightgown. The window is open because for once she has no roommate, and no one will complain that it's cold or drafty or the bugs might get in. But it's true, it is cold. Ginny is cold and she considers it fair. Bill is cold now too.

She opens her trunk and pulls out a dress. It's a very pretty dress, white with blue embroidered flowers on it. She wore it last summer on vacation when they all dressed up and went to a fancy Muggle restaurant. They sat on a terrace facing the ocean and Bill's hand rested on her knee. She puts the dress on and realizes that it's almost too small already. Too tight in the bust. She reaches into the trunk again and pulls out the sandals her mother found to go with this dress. They are very simple, just beige leather straps with cloth white roses sewn onto them at intervals. She puts these on too.

Her mother told her when she was very young that she should brush her hair with one hundred strokes every day. She said that she never did it, and look what happened! They used to sit in front of her mother's mirror every night and count the strokes of her mother's brush through her hair; thirty, thirty one, thirty two, thirty three. Ginny has always thought that her mother is beautiful, the most beautiful creature on earth, but lately she has started to recognize that even she is growing older. And one day she'll die too. She pulls out the flat-backed brush her mother gave her for her fourteenth birthday and pulls it through her hair. She doesn't have time for one hundred strokes today, and she regrets that.

She knows that she is the only one to blame.

Harry wants to know whose fault it is, and she wishes he didn't have to find out. But she should have known better than to trust Draco Malfoy. She knew it that day on the train; he would be the end of her, those cold grey eyes. She still doesn't know what he was doing there in the first place. It hardly matters now.

She takes out a blue comb, one she got when her grandmother died. It is enameled with pink and white flowers and small, happy yellow bees on the handle. she parts her hair down the middle and leans her head forward so that it won't get ruined at the back. Then she puts the comb down and parts another handful of hair at the top of her head into three and begins to French braid. Bill always liked her hair French braided. She tugs it very, very tight, because if she doesn't it will all come undone and look messy; a halo of loose red hairs making her look like a dandelion about to spore.

She knows that she is the only one to blame, because in her heart she always knew Draco Malfoy would betray her in the end. She doesn't know what else she could have done. She didn't know Draco had seen the letter from Bill, had seen that telling post mark, but he must have. He must have told his father and his father must have hired this Boswell to murder Bill. Ginny doesn't know how else it could have happened.

Having Harry find out about this, any of it, is the last thing she wants. Not only Harry, of course, anyone; but if Harry looks at her with disgust, with contempt, she knows she will shrivel and die on the spot, she will turn into dust and just blow away. She can't face her mother, her father, or Ron, the twins, she won't even be able to face the fat lady and say the Gryffindor password if she isn't brave enough to keep one little secret, one secret that never hurt anyone. A secret that is no one's business, not even hers. She has failed.

Harry grabbed Draco by the robes and threw him against the wall by the transfiguration classroom after dinner. Draco didn't resist, he must have known it was coming.

"Who's Boswell?" Harry hissed into Draco's face. Ginny was walking through the hall toward them, she had had to go to the headmaster's office instead of heading back up to the dormitory with the others, she wasn't supposed to be seeing this. She stopped dead, she felt rooted into the floor, her blood draining out. Part of her wanted to run over and pull Harry away, tell him to leave it be, cry into his chest and let him stroke her back until she stopped. But she couldn't move. She was so terrified she just listened and watched.

"What?" Draco sounded genuinely confused.

"Boswell. One of your father's cronies? It was your father who ordered Bill Weasley killed, wasn't it." Ginny had never in her life seen Harry so angry. He had come to the same conclusion Ginny had, but she didn't understand how he could possibly know. Her stomach dropped and she could no longer feel her fingers. Harry was so angry his fists were shaking but Draco still wasn't fighting back.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Draco looked Harry dead in the eye, as if he expected Harry to believe him.

Harry's hands gripped Draco's robes even tighter. "How did you know that Ginny had my invisibility cloak?"

Draco flinched. So. That was it. Somehow Draco gave himself away. She had wondered what he did with the cloak and suddenly she knew; he had spied on Harry, he had been reckless. How Harry must hate her now, hate hidden away because of the horrible tragedy of her brother's death. She cursed Draco but knew in her heart that she had only been waiting for this to happen. She watched Draco's eyes narrow, his arms shoot up and push Harry's hands away, tearing his own robes as he did.

Ginny knows that Draco is strong. She has felt it in him before, even though he has never hurt her. He can lift her up without any effort, she has touched his chest and arms and knows that he prides himself on his strength, tabulates how much weight he can lift. Harry is strong too, but his is more laissez-faire, he is as strong as he needs to be. Harry doesn't prove a point with his fists very often. As far as Ginny knows.

But Draco is strong and it was not difficult for him to turn the tables on Harry; within a couple of seconds Harry was the one slammed up against the wall and Draco was shouting into his face.

"Do you know," Draco shouted, "do you even know what that bastard was doing?"

Ginny felt the blood in her ears. It pounded through her like a horse race, and she had the power to stop nothing; not her own blood, her own breathing, and not what Draco was about to say.

"Do you even know?"

Harry pushed back against Draco but he was pinned, Draco's face inches from his own.

"Yes!" he shouted back. "He was ridding the world of back-stabbing garbage like you!"

"No, you idiot!" Draco grabbed Harry by the neck and slammed his head back against the wall. He was still shouting, the sound of his voice echoed off into the high stone ceilings, through the elegant archway where Ginny stood. "He was fucking his sister! For God's sake! He deserves whatever he got!"

Ginny didn't hear anything else. She was running for a long time; through corridors, up flights of stairs, through dusty rooms she'd never seen before. She felt that if she ran fast enough she would outrun what Draco had said, she would run so fast she would go back in time and it would never have happened. Draco would not have told Harry her secret, and Bill would not be dead. She ran until she fell down against the stone floor and broke her lip open. After that she felt so stupid she couldn't even cry.

She looks young with her hair braided up like this, plaits on either side of her face. She tucks the braids up under the weave of hair tight against her head, which hurts, but looks very neat and tidy. Once that's done she sits down on the floor with a jar of flowers and makes a crown.

When she was five years old her brothers took her into the meadow behind the Burrow and she would make flower jewelry while they played. Crowns, bracelets, anklets, necklaces; her mother showed her how to weave their stems together once and now she can't stop herself. She made so many one afternoon that George and Fred laughed at her; she's a flower princess, she's the queen of the garden gnomes. Bill carried her home on his shoulders.

Now she makes a crown with lilacs and crocuses and a necklace of lily of the valley. She uses the buttercups to make bracelets and makes daisy anklets, three deep over her sandals. It's midnight before she's done, and it's quarter past by the time she's walking outside toward the lake.

At the last minute she almost forgot her wand, but she tugs it into the small pocket her mother sewed along the hem of her dress just for it. It's cold outside and the flower stems are wet and rubbing against her wrists. There's water dripping down her temple and she keeps brushing the daisyheads together as she walks. She doesn't remember the stems feeling so rough, so uncomfortable, when she dressed herself up in flowers before. But then, Bill always carried her then.

She doesn't wonder what anyone will say about her after this. She doesn't care.

When she gets to the lake, she pulls out her wand and points to her ankles first. The finest use of transfiguration; flowers to lead. She does the crown on her head last, which she realizes as she tries to reach it was a mistake. It's hard to lift her hands up to her head properly with the lead buttercups around her wrists. When it's done she holds her wand in two hands and breaks it over her hip.

She has always wished that she could be the one at the bottom of the lake, after all, the one someone (anyone) wants to rescue more than anything else, the most precious thing in the world. She wonders what it must be like to be loved that much. She turns back just once and looks at the stark old school sticking out of the earth in the darkness, the moon reflected in all those dark windows. No one knows that she's gone, there will be no cavalry, no worried-looking Hermione or Parvati tugging on her hand and crying and telling her not to do it. They will all be shocked and then Harry will tell them the truth. And then they will understand that she was too ashamed to live any longer.

It's a clear night, and the moon is almost full. Not quite, because nothing is ever quite perfect. There's a bit of wind picking up and blowing against her as she steps into the water, but she doesn't mind. She wants to feel everything.

6  Your Darkest Voice

The imagination says Listen to me. I am your darkest voice. I an your 4am voice. I am the voice that wakes you up and says this is what I'm afraid of. Do not listen to me at your peril.
-- John Guare, Six Degrees of Separation

Harry Potter stares into the fire. His fingers are cold and he feels as though his chest is empty; his breath is rattling around against his ribs and he can hear blood pounding in his ears. Ron Weasley is sitting next to him, his thumbs pressing against the bridge of his nose, and his eyes are shut.

"Ginny and Bill were always close," Ron says. Harry nods even though he knows Ron can't see him.

It has been a terrible day. Harry has not been able to think about anything but Ginny and everyone is asking about her. Did she really try to kill herself? Did you really find her in the lake? I could hear her screaming from my room. I woke up and heard her screaming in the corridor. Did she slit her wrists? Did she drink a potion? Boy, she must have really loved her brother. Harry is tired and he can't get the feeling of the lake water out of his bones.

Ginny is in the hospital wing. She's unwell, they say. Grief. Panic. She needs some time to rest, her parents are going to come up to Hogwarts tomorrow to take her home for a while, and Ron will go with them. The school year is almost done anyway, and Ron and Ginny have both been excused from their end of year exams. Harry isn't certain if Ron will stay home with her or not; he'll go for the weekend at least, he says. Harry is relieved in a way, but also panicked. He hates Hogwarts without Ron. He already feels lonely and he thinks that he will have to get used to that feeling.

This afternoon he saw Malfoy in the hospital wing. It made him nervous, seeing Malfoy and Ginny together; he still didn't know what was between them and the idea of it made him feel jealous. Malfoy was holding her hand, standing next to her bed where she lay heavily sedated. As Harry watched he leaned over and kissed her forehead.

Harry wishes he could tell Ron everything, but he can't. The truth is like an apple lodged in his throat and Harry is almost sure that it will kill him eventually. It will kill either him or Ginny, and he'd prefer that it be him. A poisoned apple that he bit into himself, a gift from Malfoy, a splash of cold reality in his face like the lake water still frigid from the thaw. He wants to curse and throw things but he can't for Ron's sake.

He pats Ron's shoulder and stands up, says that he's heading up to bed. He's tired. Ron looks up at him and smiles. As Harry turns to walk upstairs Ron says, "Thanks again, Harry. You know. For looking out for Ginny."

Harry smiles tightly and goes to bed. His eyes already feel wet but he doesn't want to cry.

He remembers seeing Bill kiss Ginny a million times. Rub her back, play with her hair, tickle her until she screamed. Once Bill even took off her shoes and rubbed her feet. He had felt oddly jealous then, because they loved each other and they were family. Harry wasn't that close to anyone, not even to Ron or Hagrid or Hermione, not anyone. While he stayed at the Burrow he always dreamed that he was a part of that family too, that everyone loved him that much. Now he felt sick and empty and more alone than he's ever felt in his life.

He wouldn't have believed what Malfoy said if Ginny hadn't confirmed it.

It was just past midnight and Hagrid was offering to pull out the cot from the storage shed so that Harry wouldn't have to trudge back up to the dormitory when they heard the screaming. Harry had come down to talk with Hagrid about Bill, the funeral, flowers, and maybe to quietly tell Hagrid what Malfoy had said, but he hadn't worked up the courage. Screaming, terrified shrieking, like someone losing their mind, someone being attacked, someone dying. Harry knew instantly that it was Ginny and his first thought was that she had been captured by giant spiders, snakes, werewolves, or the whomping willow. His second thought was that the ghost of Bill Weasley was raping her and he barreled out of Hagrid's hut without his coat.

She was standing in the lake, up to her shoulders in water and screaming at the top of her lungs. If there were words in the screaming Harry couldn't make them out. She was crying and slapping her hands down into the water, she was kicking in slow motion. The water was cold against Harry's legs as he struggled toward her. He was screaming along with her, trying to get her attention, but she didn't react to him until he grabbed her around the waist and started pulling her toward the shore.

She turned and glared at him so icily his heart froze over. "Why are you saving me now?" she shrieked. "Why didn't you save me when I was ten, Harry? Or when I was eleven? Or when I was twelve? Why are you saving me now? Why are you saving me now that he's dead?"

Harry was shocked and embarrassed, shocked and terrified, he could hardly believe it. Was what Malfoy said true? Bill Weasley. His sister. Little innocent Ginny, who had been too shy to ask him to dance at the end of year ball. And she was right. All that saving the world and he had never saved her from a homegrown terror, from her own private nightmare. He had been too naïve to see it. And all that time he had only been thinking of himself, pitying himself, jealous of her for having siblings, for having Malfoy, for being loved.

"I'm sorry," he said, her wet hair pressed against his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He was crying when he pulled her toward the shore and she was still screaming, she was struggling against him and the water, there was metal on her wrists that cut his face.

Hagrid pulled her out of Harry's arms and wrapped her in his coat. "Come on," he said gruffly, nodding toward the school. "Hospital wing." Harry was very cold and very scared and he couldn't stop crying, couldn't stop saying he was sorry, over and over.

He shuts the door behind him now, grateful to have a room of his own. He loves Ron but he can't bear to see him so sad and know something sadder still that he will never know. He can't bear to look at him without wanting to say goodbye to him, to explain that he has no choice. His eyes start to water when he thinks about it, so he tries not to. Dizzy with sleep, he pulls off his clothes and dumps them on the floor. He crawls into bed and all he can see when he closes his eyes is Ginny's face in the hospital wing, her voice in his ears. "Promise me," she said.

He promised. If he tells anyone, anyone ever, she'll kill herself. He promised. She doesn't want him to come to Bill's funeral. She wants to say goodbye to him properly and Harry is not welcome. Bill would not want him there. He promises that he will fake illness, he will not go to the funeral. He promises that he will never go to the Burrow again. He promises that Ron and Fred and George will never know, that he will stay away from them so they can live happy lives. Harry is a danger now. Ginny says she will kill herself if Harry can't do this, she will tell everyone that Harry beat and raped her and then she will kill herself. And everyone will blame him, and everyone will hate him.

"I loved you once," Ginny said. Then she closed her eyes. Harry knew this was the last thing she would ever say to him. Harry is very tired but he doesn't think he'll ever sleep again.

But he does sleep. He sleeps and dreams of graves filled with worms, of water, and of Ginny, age ten, with blood dripping down her legs. In his dream he is screaming and crying and Ginny is hanging by her neck in the Gryffindor common room. In his dream it's not Bill who's dead, it's not Bill who molested Ginny. It's Harry.

He wakes up to the sound of his door opening and he sits up. His heart is racing and he is naked; he didn't put his pajamas on when he went to sleep and he has no idea where they are. He briefly considers covering himself with a sheet and jumping up, but there's no time. A shadow slips into his room and closes the door with a click.

"Who's there?" Harry whispers. There is no answer. The shadow steps closer to his bed and Harry suddenly recognizes Malfoy; his hair in his face and an old t-shirt stretched across his chest, a pair of loose flannel pajama bottoms hanging from his hips.

Harry is angry. This is Malfoy's fault; he knew this horrible secret and used it against Ginny, he knew it and didn't tell anyone. He knew it and didn't rescue her, which no one would ever expect him to do anyway. He knew it and Ginny didn't hate him for it the way she hated Harry. He leaps out of his bed and tries to punch Malfoy in the face, but Malfoy is too quick and too strong; he grabs Harry by the shoulders and pushes him back down on the bed.

Harry kicks and struggles against Malfoy's hands, but Malfoy quickly straddles Harry's thighs, crouches on top of him with his hands pinning Harry's wrists on either side of his head. Harry whimpers, he is stuck, Malfoy is going to hurt him, he is trapped and it doesn't even matter anymore. He can't stop struggling against Malfoy's grip but he can't stop crying either. Maybe he should be hurt, maybe Malfoy will kill him or humiliate him or both. He is scared and embarrassed to be crying and naked in front of Malfoy and he feels so helpless he wishes he were dead.

Malfoy doesn't say anything. He just stares down at Harry, watches him struggle, tightens his grip. His face is just inches from Harry's but Harry can't read his expression; no smirk, no angry vengence, nothing. He just looks serious and a maybe little sad. Harry feels guilty about the way he's been acting toward Malfoy; he's been letting his imagination take over, he's been obeying his baser instincts when he knows that they can only get him into trouble. And so they have; even though it doesn't make sense, Harry is sure that touching Malfoy is what put this series of actions in motion. Kiss Malfoy, touch Malfoy, Bill dies, Ginny suddenly becomes a victim of horrible abuse, Ginny blames Harry. If he hadn't touched Malfoy none of this would have happened, none of it would be true. Harry is about to ask Malfoy to le him go when he shifts down and kisses Harry's chest.

It doesn't matter what Harry wants anymore. He wants to save Ginny and he can't; he wants to touch Malfoy but he can't do that either. He wants to squirm away but he's immobile. The heels of Malfoy's hands are digging into Harry's wrists but his lips are gentle; Harry feels the lightest kiss on his shoulder and then Malfoy's lips on the underside of his arm. He closes his eyes and his skin is tingling. Malfoy's hands shift upward and he laces his fingers into Harry's; his thumb is trailing back and forth over Harry's right wrist and Harry stops struggling against him. Maybe has he to submit now, maybe this is the beginning of his punishment. Roll with the punches, he always thought that was a figure of speech.

Malfoy's hip is rubbing against Harry's groin and he feels warm and tired and guilty. Malfoy's tongue is stroking his left nipple; Malfoy feels so good, he smells so good, Harry has longed for him to be here, to do this, but Harry is still crying. He feels as though the world is ending, he is dying, and now it's only Malfoy's hands that keep him here.

Malfoy buries his face in Harry's neck and kisses him there too. He kisses him on his face, on his wet cheeks, and then his mouth. He presses his lips to Harry's, he pulls Harry's lower lip between his own, and when he lets go he kisses him sweetly again. He kisses Harry's closed eyes, and kisses him on the tip of his nose like a child. He touches his lips to Harry's again and Harry kisses him back; he's still angry and scared and desperate and so hungry and he kisses Malfoy hard.

But there are still tears rolling down Harry cheeks and he is sobbing into Malfoy's mouth. He takes one hand off Harry's wrist and strokes his stomach. "Shhh," he says, and then he curls his lips around Harry's ear lobe.

Harry feels Malfoy's hands on his thighs before he realizes that his own are both free, but he still feels too helpless to move. Malfoy is weaving himself over Harry's body, he is weaving himself into Harry's psyche and making himself necessary. Malfoy is kissing his stomach, his tongue is circling Harry's navel and Harry is torn between wanting to throw Malfoy onto his back and tear off his pajamas and wanting Malfoy's mouth to drift lower. He pushes his hips up and wipes tears off his face with his fingers. Malfoy's hands stroke him from his thighs to his stomach and back again and his lips press against Harry's cock.

"Draco," Harry says. He barely recognizes his own voice. It is crackled and ugly and wet. Malfoy kisses the inside of Harry's thigh and then Harry feels Malfoy's tongue sliding on the underside of his cock. He can't stop his hips, his moans are jagged and full of hiccoughs and he feels so good and so horrible. He lets himself dissolve, he gives in, he gives up. He lets Malfoy dictate his breathing, and if Malfoy stops then Harry will just stop too.

"Draco," he says again. He doesn't know why he's saying it. He doesn't want Malfoy to answer. He doesn't want Malfoy to stop.

And he doesn't. He doesn't stop until Harry is writhing on the mattress and moaning Malfoy's name over and over, he doesn't stop until Harry comes, and even then his hands are still grasping Harry's hips like he might float away without him. Harry lays still panting, one hand on Malfoy's shoulder, the other buried in sheets. He can feel Malfoy's eyelashes brushing against his thigh.

He knows that in the morning he will go into the potions classroom as he always does and he will mix a potion, hoping that no one will see him do it. It's a simple potion; just two or three common ingredients. He will quickly drink it on the sly and then will clean up the evidence. He will make himself so sick that he will be in the hospital wing for three days; that's how long it will take for him to stop throwing up. He will not be able to eat for another two days and it will take two more beyond that for him to walk around again without fainting. This way no one will expect him to go to Bill's funeral, and he will be too sick to say goodbye to Ron. Harry knows that he will probably never see Ron again, and this is the price he has to pay.

He presses his fingers against his eyes and feels a sob rising in his chest again. Malfoy sits up, crawls up next to him and pulls Harry into his lap.

Harry looks at Malfoy's face and sees secrets written all over him. "What are we going to do?" he whispers.

"I don't know," Malfoy says. He lies down on the mattress and pulls Harry down with him. "We won't tell anyone." Harry isn't sure if he means Ginny's secret or theirs.

 End