playing the game, living the lie

Chapter 7: strangers in the night.

[date: October 23]

The Hall was alive with owls. The birds flapped and whirled overhead, dropping package and parcel and letter, students frantically trying to catch them before they slipped through their grasp, and into the plates of breakfast. A few were unlucky, leaving missives from home or friends to be smeared with fat from bacon, or scrambled eggs - but for the most part, the student body had had its reflexes trained by this method over the course of months, if not years, and so they triumphantly opened the mail, breakfast temporarily forgotten in the rush of news from the outside world.

Ron, Hermione and Harry sat together at the Gryffindor table, a small enclave set against the hustle and bustle of others. The latter two were quite surprised when they received an envelope each, Harry particularly. Now, with Remus and Sirius living in Hogsmeade, and Remus teaching again, all those who he was close to lived nearby, and there were easier ways and means of contacting him than a letter. So he was reassured when he recognised the familiar neat scrawl of Molly Weasley, all florid letters and wayward loops.

"Erm, Ron?," Harry said first. "Do you know why your mother's sent us letters?"

Hermione turned the envelope over in her hands, eyes straining for any clue to its contents. "It doesn't look large enough for a letter," she observed clinically. "It looks more like a card." Turning to her boyfriend, she nudged him gently with an elbow. "Why don't you open the letter she sent you? It might tell us what's going on."

With a reluctant sigh, Ron picked up the envelope that seemed full to bursting in his lap, tearing it open and wading through the pages of parchment that had gone into its creation. "Ugh," he said distinctly. "Mum's seen fit to give me a family update."

Harry looked quizzically at Hermione. "What does that mean?," he asked, sotto voce.

Hermione pressed her head close to Harry's, as if not wanting to remind Ron. "She starting sending them last year apparently, you know, after all the trouble. It's her way of letting him know how everyone's doing, keeping the family spirit alive and all that."

Ron looked fit to keel over. "Everyone meaning the third cousins twice removed in Iceland that I've never met." He quickly scanned another page, stopping at one sentence. He shook his head slightly, blinking, and ran over the sentence again. And again. He shuddered, and sank back into his chair, groaning slightly. "The letters are actually invitations."

"Invitations?," asked Harry, his curiosity peaked, beginning to slice open the envelope with a knife. "What for?"

"Percy's getting married." Ron replied, a distinct note of distaste in his voice. "To Oliver. And you're both invited."

Percy's engagement to Penelope Clearwater ended almost as quickly as it had started, with the two parting company at the beginning of Harry's Fourth Year. The reason had never become public knowledge, but it was believed that both Percy and Penelope had merely come to realise for a variety of reasons that they weren't as compatible as first thought, and separated as friends. A few months later, Percy had bumped into Oliver Wood whilst on errands in Diagon Alley. A polite invitation to catch up had been accepted, and the two who had barely spoken during their years at Hogwarts had become firm friends, and eventually moved in together in order to save on rent - although Oliver was rarely in, due to his Quidditch commitments. Harry never exactly found out when the two became more than just roommates, but from the scuttlebutt Hermione had given him, it was clear that both were besotted with one another.

Hermione quickly scanned through the embossed card, and nodded perfunctorily, as if giving her approval. "That'll be lovely, Ron," she said, turning back to Harry. "When I was at Ron's over the summer, Percy had Oliver over for a week. You should have seen them Harry," she continued, gushing a tad. "They were so adorable together, blushing all the time, and holding hands...it was just really nice."

Ron muttered something under his breath and turned bright red, going through the remaining pages before folding them back inside the envelope.

"What was that, Ron?"

There was a pause, and Ron hunched his shoulders. He knew that Hermione wouldn't let him get away with saying nothing. "You didn't have to sleep in the room opposite theirs in the landing," he muttered. "You were downstairs in the guest room."

"So?" Hermione wondered aloud, before colouring. "Oh."

Harry was still bewildered. "Can someone please tell me what we're all getting bashful about, just so I can join in?"

Ron scanned the table, finding all others too engrossed in their own conversations to notice. Seamus and Dean were busy discussing exactly which flavour of Bertie Botts' jelly beans were the worst (Dean had his money on earwax, whilst Seamus declared that broccoli was more vile than anything in the world); Neville was stammering through a conversation with Lavender, who was proceeding to steamroll him about the wonderful abilities of the great and amazing Professor Trelawney; Ginny was too busy being herself to talk to anyone. Merlin only knew what the Creevy twins were giggling over, and Lee was nowhere to be found. Thus comforted, Ron hunkered down next to his friends, the mere inclination of his blazing red hair enough to bring suspicion - but then, Ron was never subtle.

In a stage whisper, he hissed at the other two. "I've had the room opposite Percy's, ever since last year when we moved things around, right?" Harry and Hermione nodded, and Ron continued, his ears rapidly turning the same colour as his hair. "The night before they went back to their place in London...the silencing charm they were using failed for just a second."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Oh."

"Yes, oh. And Hermione, don't tell me how 'adorable' they were. You didn't have to hear your older brother - stuffy, stick in the mud Percy, of all people - scream out 'Oh yes you Quidditch stud, I want to ride your broomstick!'"

All three shuddered deeply. Breakfast had suddenly lost its appeal.

Despite reaching their allotted emotional trauma for the week in one morning, they still had the classes of the day to cope with: Potions first, and then Harry and Ron had Divination before lunch, whilst Hermione went to Muggle Studies.

Hermione started wiping her plate clean with the remnants of toast crusts, a sure sign she was ready to leave. And sure enough, she picked the small pile of notes and assorted textbooks up from the table, straightened her robes (making sure her Prefect badge was nice and shiny), and looked at the other two, a tad expectant.

Ron caught on first. "Oh, why are you heading off, Hermione?"

"Well, someone borrowed my copy of Pride and Prejudice without telling me, and I need it for Muggle Studies. You know, I think it could have been Neville. Although I wouldn't have thought he was the type to just take things of my dresser."

Seamus, whose playful banter with Dean had evolved into an equally playful arm wrestle-cum-tussle finally managed to capture the black boy's wrists in one hand, and craned his neck on an angle to grin at the three. "Maybe this is his way of telling ya he likes you, Hermione," he suggested, waggling his eyebrows. "Looks like you've got competition, Ron-lad." Anything else he could have said was lost when Dean broke free with a near-miss from his elbow. His attention somewhat distracted, the sandy-haired Gryffindor continued conversing with Hermione, although it was largely punctuated with 'oofs'.

"Y'know," he panted, doing his best to grab Dean in a half-nelson, "if you wanted to borrow the book, you could have asked me. I've read it, and I'm not exactly the type to be using it for line-by-line commentary in class, if you don't mind me sayin'."

Dean joined in as well, somewhat absurdly considering that Seamus had managed to get him in half-nelson, and was doing his best to break free by whapping Seamus on the back of his head, repeatedly. "If it doesn't turn up, I can always ask my sister to send me one for you. She has every single edition of Austen and Bronte ever published; I'm sure she could spare one copy. Loves those chick novels, she does."

Seamus refused to let go, despite his brains obviously being rattled more than was healthy. Instead he managed to wrestle Dean so that his head was settled on the table in front of him, and shoved a gleaming knife in front of the other boy. "I study those books, too, Thomas," he stated, twirling the knife in the light of the Hall. "Are you calling me a woman now? Cause if y'are, I think my friend the knife here could very much determine which one of us is the woman."

There was a definite snort from behind them. "Oh, please, Finnigan. It's patently obvious to us all that if one of you decided to embrace the career of campus eunuch, the other wouldn't be nearly as interested as he currently is."

Seamus blushed, and Dean looked at his breakfast, and both parted, to reveal Draco Malfoy standing there, a sneer on his face. The Gryffindor table went deathly quiet, and even the nearby Hufflepuffs lowered their voices to a few murmurs, looking over at the action. Hermione, in her three part capacity as friend, girlfriend, and Gryffindor prefect, immediately placed her hand over Ron's, his fingers white with anger and scrabbling over the surface of the table like a spider that Hermione squashed flat.

"Of course," Draco continued. "Please don't let that stop you."

Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and rested his hand on his chin, his face betraying nothing. "What do you want, Draco?"

Their eyes locked for a moment, and Draco's lips quivered as if suppressing a smile, before he turned slightly and rested his amused gaze upon Hermione. She blinked, somewhat disturbed. "Can I help you, Draco?", she asked, a faint note of concern in her voice. It wasn't that she was afraid of Malfoy - certainly not, and she'd proven that on previous occasions - it was merely that to the ordered world of Hermione Granger, Draco was a chaotic element; something she couldn't predict or control, and that irked her.

"Well, I thought I might discuss Jeffrey Fletcher with you..." He glanced across to Ron, and smirked, "when you're free, of course." Ron growled audibly, and Hermione didn't even glare at him - preferring instead to squeeze down on his hand until his eyes went very wide, and the redhead sat up straight in his chair. Draco watched all of this with a cool amused glance, and couldn't refuse to comment. "The redhead certainly does behave better now you've put him on a leash, Granger. Think you'll have him toilet-trained in a month, or will that take longer?"

Hermione met his gaze with a perfectly composed one of her own. "I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Draco. But I do have to get to the library before Potions, and so...?"

Draco waved one hand in the air. "Oh, by all means, do depart. I'd hate to be responsible for you losing one quarter of a percentile in your overall mark."

Hermione nestled her books in her arms, and nodded goodbye to the table, edging away. "I'll meet you in the Prefect's Room at lunchtime, Draco," she said, before leaving. "We can discuss Fletcher there." Ron stood up immediately and kissed her on the cheek, all the while glaring at Draco, sitting down again promptly as Hermione looked at him, shook her head, and went off down the corridor, giggling.

"Do you really have to be so obnoxious to my friends, Draco?" Harry asked, still lazing back in his chair, pushing the finished plate of bacon and eggs and toast away from the edge of the table.

Ron sniggered. "Of course he does, Harry. That way he gets to stalk you." The redhead soon found himself under the concerted gaze of two most unlikely allies - the burning grey eyes of Draco Malfoy and the coolly reflective emerald eyes of Harry Potter were focused upon him, and neither seemed happy. In his overwhelming need to retaliate, Ron had forgotten a cardinal rule that had sprung up amongst the Gryffindors, and to a lesser extent the other Houses in the past few weeks: don't talk about it. You could mention that Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy had started studying together: that was a known fact, and could never be altered. But to refer to say, the way that might have looked at one another in a classroom, or if you caught them laughing at a joke over some old text in the Library, and taken that comfortable laughter as indicative of something deeper, that was a definite no-no.

Realising his mistake, Ron felt a pang of guilt, although that was soon overwhelmed with righteous anger. Bloody hell! All this tip-toeing around, just to placate Malfoy's feelings. Feelings that he shouldn't be having anyway, and feelings that were probably just a front so he could shag Harry and toss him aside, the bastard. Ron was onto him, oh yes. Getting up from his chair, he nodded warily to Harry, still keeping his eyes on Draco, in case the ferret tried anything. "I should probably catch up to Hermione - make sure she doesn't walk into a wall while reading, or something," he muttered, embarrassed, jerking a thumb in the general direction of the corridors, and scampered.

"You scared him off," Harry said, his jaw set and arms folded, turning back to Draco.

"I can't help it if the Weasel recognises his superiors," Draco shot back. "I notice you glared at him just as much as I."

"Well, yes," Harry stammered. "But, uh, he was out of line, and he knew it."

Draco rolled his eyes. "I suppose you're going to make him apologise. You Gryffindors and your sanctimonious morality," he tutted, with something close to fondness in his tone.

Harry grinned. "What, afraid I'll make an honest man out of you?"

Draco merely raised an eyebrow, and didn't speak. Harry was suddenly aware that the entire Gryffindor table was deathly silent, and all eyes were on him and Draco. Ginny was holding a sign and pointing to it - it seemed to read "Fuck him already" in black lipstick, although Harry couldn't be sure.

Draco cocked his head at Harry's sudden wide-eyed reaction, and narrowed his eyes in response. "Virginia Weasley," he said softly, without turning his head, "I hardly think it's appropriate to comment on the sexual lives of prefects - especially when they could give you detention for a month."

Ginny laid her sign flat on the table, took out her lipstick and drew two think lines across part of the sign, replacing "him already" with "he's good," so that the newly raised sign read "Fuck, he's good!". Harry put his head in his hands and groaned somewhat, caught between acute embarrassment and sheer desperation.

I'm not fucking Draco Malfoy. I have no particular inclination to fuck Draco Malfoy. Honestly. Why can't anyone see that?, he mused to himself. "Don't you think you've caused enough trouble?," Harry asked finally, raising his head to glare at the Slytherin.

"What, and go easy on you? Don't be silly, Potter. Someone's got to toughen you up, push you hard."

Harry snorted, a challenging glint in his eye. "And I suppose you're saying you're hard now?" I can't believe I just said that. I did not just think associate Draco with 'hard.' No, that way lay madness and palpitations and sweaty palms, Harry was certain.

"Oh, I think you'll find I keep you in shape," Draco proffered, looking at his nails. "Academically speaking, of course, seeing that the Quidditch Cup this year seems to have been cancelled."

"If it wasn't, I'd still end up beating you."

Draco placed his thin, delicate hands on the table, and lowered his head to Harry's, barely an inch away. "That a promise, Potter?"

"A fact, Malfoy," Harry grinned back. Was that flirting? Am I flirting with Draco? Cause I think I'm enjoying it. Ugh. This is bad, right?

Draco slapped his hands against the table, causing Harry to jump slightly. His face now triumphant with victory, he stood up. "Please, try to note anything you don't understand in Potions today. I know it will probably be the entire lesson, but I guess a few salient facts might filter through."

"Most teachers don't insult their students, Draco, have you noticed that?"

"When did you ever think I was 'most teachers', Harry? Now, I'm not helping Gryffindor's sacred martyr get a good mark in Potions out of the boundless depths of my heart. I'm merely doing this to show you lot that there's nothing I can't do."

Harry burst out laughing. "Does everything in your life have to revolve around you?"

Draco's eyes glittered. "Give me something else to live for, Potter, and we'll see."

Harry gulped, suddenly aware of the subtext. Oh yes. We are flirting.

Fuck.

Blinking furiously, he tried to think of a snappy response - despite everything, he wasn't going to let Draco Malfoy leave with the last word. Assuming a suitable expression of innocence - one more suited to the weeping boy lost the Daily Prophet tended to portray him as than any facet of reality, he asked a simple question.

"What if I fail, Draco?"

"My dear Harry," Draco oozed false charm, "I'll get you to cheat before that happens."

"You what!?" Harry was suddenly aware that he had no idea where the rules were in the game, and that all he could attempt to do was keep his pieces in play.

"I don't intend on taking you under my wing, as it were, to lose." Draco lectured him like a small child. "I'm not having my reputation tarnished by your lack of academic endeavour."

"I'm not stupid," Harry sulked somewhat. "I'm just not brilliant at Potions."

"We'll see about that," Draco surmised.

"How would you get me to cheat, anyway?"

"Oh." Draco considered this, a slight smile on his lips. "I have many...means by which I could persuade you."

Even Harry could see the hunger in those eyes, and he nodded dumbly.

"Eight o'clock, outside that oversized wench you call a Portrait Hole, yes?"

Harry nodded, again.

"I don't want you keeping me waiting like the last time. She had the cheek to ask who I was!"

"I'll be there," Harry said softly. "I'll make sure you get all the time you need with me." Oh, bugger! He cursed inwardly. I even sound as if I like him. I mean, I don't really like him. I'm just studying with him/using him and admittedly he's not bad company. Alright, he's actually kind of good company sometimes, but I don't like him. Even if he is hot. I didn't say that. I didn't, he told his subconscious, and I repressed all knowledge of it, so there. Living with the Dursley's had made Harry very good at self-denial.

Draco merely nodded at the last remark, and with a small, pleased expression on his face, he left the Hall, a stunned Gryffindor table in his wake.

After a few moments of concerted blinking by all concerned, Seamus dug up the courage to lean across the table and asked, "So, have you snogged yet?" Dean immediately slapped him on the back of the head, which caused Seamus to rub said head and turn to his friend with a vaguely cross expression on his face.

"What did you do that for?"

"It's not polite to ask people if they've snogged, Shame."

"People can ask me. I mean, it's not as if I've actually done it myself, but I'm quite happy knowing that no-one wants to kiss me."

Dean rolled his eyes. "That's not the point. The point is privacy."

"But I have no life, and neither do you. Therefore I must live through someone else's."

Harry broke into the conversation. "I suppose that's some kind of compliment, but honestly Seamus, there's-" He stopped suddenly, and looked at a fixed point above Seamus' shoulder.

"What's the matter, Harry?" Seamus asked, turning to look, "Draco-ARGH!" For there, standing right behind the young Irishman was the imposing figure of Professor McGonagall. Seamus in his fright had immediately bucked back, his chair nearly toppling over - only to be caught by McGonagall's seemingly frail hand whipping out at a speed that surprised the gathered students to catch said chair and return Seamus to an upright position.

"Thank you for that reaction, Mr. Finnigan," she said primly, "it heartens me that my presence is enough to scare the members of my very own house into early paraplegia." Seamus stammered out an apology, and looked somewhat terrified at Dean, who was facing the Professor's back as she stood between the two. "And," she continued, never moving from her spot, "please stop waggling your eyebrows, Mr. Thomas. I know Mr. Finnigan may find it alluring, but I pray you the rest of us do not."

Both Dean and Seamus were suitably cowed by the Professor's ability to see things from the back of her head, quickly making their excuses, and left. McGonagall looked somewhat pleased, a faint smile turning the corners of her lips. "Mr Potter," she said, looking down at him, "I wish to discuss something with you. Please follow me."

She turned from the table, and walked towards the exit, her robes almost floating over the floor as if she herself glided. Harry got up from his chair, crammed the last crust of a piece of toast in his mouth, and followed after her.

They walked in silence until they were someway down the corridor, Harry trailing at McGonagall's side, intensely curious as to the matter of their discussion until finally, he could bear it no longer.

"Professor, what did you want to speak to me about?"

She looked down at him as if the answer was obvious. "Why, Harry, Quidditch and a Gryffindor victory! Following the...events of last year, of course, Professor Dumbledore postponed the Quidditch tournament until he could make a set decision on whether it would go ahead or not."

Harry nodded, impatient. He remember all too vividly the times he had been called into McGonagall's office with the other Quidditch captains to be told that the season had been delayed for another few weeks. The first exhilarating rush of an exhibition match against Slytherin almost two months ago - Malfoy, a bludger, his leg - faded into frustration, no less irritating than the dull ache that spread throughout his leg whenever it rained. "Does that mean it's finally going to go ahead now?"

"Yes, oh yes. Albus has decided that we need a show of strength, of courage, and I agree with him. Last year may have been terrible, but we need to show ourselves that we are still capable of life and all the joy it entails. Besides, there have been no major threats from..." her voice dropped, "the other side reported so far this year - it may be that certain people have gone into hiding for the time being."

It was true. Contrary to last school year, when the Dark Mark had been seen three times in one month, and several wizards and Muggles had turned up dead across the country, it was calm. Disturbingly so. "I should organise try-outs this weekend then?"

"I know it is rather short notice, but I think the enthusiasm of the House will more than make up for it. Even if the House is somewhat depleted." She tutted, shaking her head.

Last year had also seen a number of families removing their children from Hogwarts and sending them across the Atlantic to 'safer' wizard schools in the US and Canada, or even further afield, to Australia and New Zealand. Harry screwed his face up and considered all the positions he'd have to fill as captain. The Quidditch tournament last year had been cancelled half way through on account of the troubles, but he'd discovered that Seamus was a good enough Keeper, although he did have a tendency to show off. There was that girl in second year who was Quidditch mad: perhaps he could try her out for one of the Beater positions? And if worse came to worst, he would beg at the apathetic feet of Ginny Weasley, and try to convince her to take up one of the Chasers' roles again. Perhaps he could angle it somehow with her girlfriend, who was known for her love of Quidditch players. Hmm. Too messy, considering that trying to impress Catherine that way would just remind Ginny of that little incident involving Catherine, a keg of bona fide scotch, and half the Hufflepuff Quidditch team.

That was the only thing about Hufflepuffs. They were always far too nice to say no.

"I'll put up some posters around the Tower, over the next few days," said Harry. "I'll also let Hermione know - that way she can announce something at breakfast, as a Prefect."

"I'm sure you'll do a wonderful job as Captain, Harry. There is leadership potential in you. It's a shame the season didn't finish last year, or you surely would have shone."

Great, Harry thought internally. Leadership potential. Can you tell me how to get it out? He didn't want the responsibilities that people kept shoveling on him, even those he could probably handle; because invariably it always lead to something more. Every time he stepped outside his dorms, it seemed he broke another record, performed yet another amazing feat. And honestly, it was all getting a bit much. People invariably expected it now, and all Harry could do was shrug his shoulders, scratch his head and pray to every deity he'd ever heard of that he didn't fuck this up. He just wanted to be normal: boring, humdrum normal, with no funny scar or abilities, or people trying to kill him for numerous reasons. A quiet life, one where he could have the chance to take things at his own pace, and love, and be loved in return, and settle down in some nice cottage somewhere with said loved one, like Remus and Sirius had managed.

A life where people didn't get killed because of him, where he didn't have to lie to people, or use them or see them as pawns. But then, if that life had happened, he never would have been friendly to Draco. And at least now there was one less enemy to worry about.

Harry was lost in his thoughts, and didn't notice that Professor McGonagall had begun speaking again. "Harry?"

"Hmm?"

"I was just saying that as your Head of House, I look quite warmly upon the friendship you have seemingly begun with Draco Malfoy."

"Oh?" Harry said weakly. I wonder if you think we're shagging, too.

"This is not the time to be holding old rivalries, Harry," she told him sternly. "You never know where allies may spring from."

Please don't think I'm moral, Harry pleaded silently. He's just an ally cause he's in love with me, and I'm using that cause I'm a bastard. Boy Who Bloody Lived my arse. Harry knew he was supposed to be a hero, but the way he was treating Draco - keeping the Slytherin around, and occasionally throwing him a suggestive comment to keep him enthused didn't seem very heroic. He had to admit, seeing the side of Draco he now had made it worse, now that he knew there was actually a human being inside that coldly furious outer skin. "I consider Draco Malfoy to be a good friend," he told McGonagall, his head held high for Draco's sake, and was somewhat surprised to realise that the words rang true within himself. She inclined her head, and went down a side corridor, protesting she had business to attend to before classes started for the day.

He's a friend and yet I use him. Why?, he asked himself.

//Because I'm tired and I'm angry and I've seen too many people die,// he responded.

You really think he'll die if you don't do this?

//No. He'll probably watch amused from Malfoy Manor as both sides fight to the death, and then come down and claim whatever's left cause no-one will be strong enough to stop him.//

Is that why you're doing this?

//No.//

Why then?

//Cause I'm afraid I'm wrong. Cause I'm afraid that no matter what I say he'll join Voldemort just like his father did and I won't be able to save (stop?) him.//

Then what?

//Then I'll have to kill him.//

So you think that if you have to kill him then you will, and you don't want to face that side of yourself, do you?

//No.//

Is there anyone deserving of death, in your mind?

The names leapt instantly to Harry's mind, and he was ashamed by his own bloodlust. //Pettigrew. Voldemort. And anyone who gets in my way.//

Like if Draco does?

//Yes.//

So all this is just an attempt to avoid the responsibility, to ask someone to pay the price for you, rather than carry the guilt, the knowledge of your own inhumanity.

//Yes.//

The inner critic in Harry's mind gained a noticeable sneer in his tone, and the voice became instantly familiar. It had not been the first time in recent months his own doubt had manifested itself this way, and it was becoming far too prevalent for Harry's own liking.

You know, his inner Draco said, you don't deserve me, Harry.

//I know. Merlin help me, I know.//

Harry wandered along the corridors and wondered if he still believed in anything anymore.

Ron managed to catch up with Hermione as she came out of the library, having himself made a side-trip to his dorm to pick up a few books. "We've got a bit before class, you know," she said by way of greeting, to which Ron merely grunted in response, falling in step as he always did besides her.

"Ron?"

"Mmm?"

"What really gets you about them being together?", she asked, somewhat puzzled. She figured it was perhaps a form of brotherly jealousy, as if Ron couldn't finally allow Percy to be so happy because of his rather nerdish existence.

After a few moments thought, Ron replied. "They've got nothing in common."

"They have each other," Hermione chided. "All you have to do is look at them to see that."

"I know. All the flirting. Ugh." Ron sounded as if he was going to vomit. "But well, he's supposed to be noble and stuff, and he's...just not." There was a clear differential between the two 'he's.

Hermione scrunched up her nose. "Look, I think you're been awfully unfair on him." It did seem that way, if Ron was casting his very own brother as the bad guy.

"Unfair?" Ron almost screeched. "After the way he's treated us? Treated you? Merlin, he's a bloody Slytherin, how do you expect me to react?"

She held out a hand and lightly placed it on Ron's wrist, causing them both to stop. "Ron. Who the fuck are you talking about?" Hermione Granger very rarely used foul language, so the effect was tripled when she did.

Ron blinked, standing in the middle of the corridors. "Harry and Malfoy of course. Why? Who were you talking about?"

She swatted him lightly. "I was talking about Percy and Oliver!"

"Oh," Ron scowled. "That's also weird. Percy shouldn't be allowed to have sex with anyone."

She glared at him, and he paled under the familiar presence of the Look. "Sometimes, Ronald Weasley, I don't know why I bother."

He grinned bashfully, and ruffled his flaming red hair. "Cause you love me?" he suggested hopefully.

Hermione relented, smiling. "I guess that could have something to do with it." Looking at him strangely, she tapped his nose with her index finger. "Why all this fuss about Harry and Draco suddenly? When I first brought it up, you told me I was mad. And then you proclaimed it was all on Draco's side, that Harry could never be so stupid...has he told you something?"

"No," Ron said sourly. "He still gives out the same story he has for the past two weeks. But you just have to look at him, and the fact he's willing - even looking forward - to spend time with Malfoy." Ron looked somewhat askance, and then pulled a book out of his robes. "And then there's this."

Hermione took it from him, and ruffled through the pages, her eyes widening sharply. "Ronald Weasley!", she exclaimed, with every ounce of self-righteous indignation she could muster. "This is my copy of Pride and Prejudice! And it has butterbeer stains on it!" To her, Voldemort may be an evil and twisted wizard with delusions of tyranny, but at least he never desecrated a book.

Ron looked pained, as if Hermione's shrill tone had gone straight to his ear drum. "But Hermione," he whined, "I couldn't let the others reading a chick novel in the dorms, so I went down to Hogsmeade and the Three Broomsticks."

Hermione's eyes flashed, and she pushed the novel hard against his chest, causing an exhalation of his breath. "Well, why don't you tell me why you had to read this 'chick novel,' despite the unfortunate consequences to your apparent masculinity, the virility of which I doubt severely at this moment in time!"

"You compared Harry and Malfoy to this author right?" Ron yelped quickly, clearly understanding that his manhood might not be intact for very long if he didn't come up with something good. "So well, I got curious, and I knew you'd finished it, and I read the book and oh Merlin - I could see the parallels. Lizzy is a smartarse, and Darcy's a conceited git with more intimacy issues than well, someone with a lot of intimacy issues, and they hate each other at first sight, but they eventually fall in love because they're the only two people who can challenge one another and did I mention that I really really hate Darcy?"

Ron felt like he deserved a good grumble. He'd been a good friend - no, better - a great friend. Watching dumbstruck what was happening to Harry, and not being able to talk about it (how could put Harry and Malfoy in the same sentence? How could he? It was an insult!) he had instead followed Hermione's original reference, and attempted to find some kind of reference frame within the muggle book. Admittedly, Ron thought this was a way of killing two birds with one stone- he could find out what Hermione meant when she described Harry and Malfoy thus, and impress Hermione at the same time! It had been a perfect plan; although he hadn't quite counted on the sheer density of Austen's prose.

But despite his faults, Ron was not stupid, merely a tad lacking in motivation sometimes, and so he struggled through. His analysis of Draco was based on the kind of knowledge only a bitter enemy could have. It wasn't a particularly considerate analysis: Ron had largely made up his mind about the Malfoy's even before he got to Hogwarts, and Draco's initial behaviour had just confirmed it, leaving the impression set in stone, and Ron, blind to anything else.

Hermione grabbed the book back and added it to the stack under her arm. "You still should have asked," she muttered, somewhat placated, "although that was a good analysis."

"You thought so?" asked Ron, bashful. "I mean, I could have come up with something more detailed if you'd given me more time, but," he gulped at a sudden glare from his girlfriend, "yes I do indeed see your point."

They walked along for a few moments, Ron occasionally risking a glance to make sure the storm was over before Hermione finally turned to face him, her natural curiosity piqued again. "Ron, do you have a problem with Harry liking guys as well as girls?" From what she'd seen, the wizarding world had no major prejudices with non-heterosexuality, but then she was looking at Wizard society from the perspective of an outsider, and knew better than to judge from that limited viewpoint.

Ron screwed up his forehead in thought - a habit that made him look constipated, but Hermione never had the heart to tell him so. "Not really," he commented, "although I am annoyed he didn't confide in me, you know. I mean, we are supposed to be best friends - is it too much to ask?" Dragging his shoes along the slate surface of the corridor, he continued after a fashion, the venom clear in his tone. "And then he gets all moon-eyed over the ferret. That self-serving self-centred self-bloody everything little ponce! I would have thought Harry would have better taste, you know, for the first guy he fell in love with but no!"

Something finally clicked in Hermione's mind, and her arm snapped up, preventing Ron from going any further. "Merlin," she breathed, turning to face him. "You're jealous."

Ron stepped back, his manner hesitant. "No," he stammered, "of course not."

"You are," Hermione repeated, under her breath. "You think that Harry should have fallen in love with you."

"Well," Ron shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Yes. No. Maybe. Yes!"

Hermione Granger did something she'd never done in her entire life. She held her face in her hands, thereby causing all the books under her arm to drop to the floor, bruising spines and creasing pages. Except she was too busy doubled over with laughter to care. "Is there something you're not telling me, Ron?" she asked, giggling. "Perhaps you'd like me to buy a strap-on? I overheard Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode discussing this shop in Hogsmeade once in the girls' lavatories - and that conversation made me seriously consider using a Memory Charm to erase it, despite whatever side effects it might have caused."

"NO!", shouted Ron, aghast, his entire face crimson with embarrassment. "I do not..." he lowered his voice, hissing at the girl besides him, who was wiping the tears off her cheeks. "I do not want you to buy a strap-on. I am perfectly heterosexual! Perfectly!" He huffed potently, chest rising and falling as he attempted to control himself. "I just...If Harry had done the obvious thing, and y'know, been smitten with me, it would have made a lot more sense. I know him and I've been there for him, supporting him his entire school life! How does Malfoy just come along, being a complete shit to him, and walk away with his heart? It isn't fair, drat it," declared Ron, and looked close to tears.

"Alright...so you don't fancy Harry, but you're indignant he doesn't fancy you?"

"He should of," muttered Ron, scowling. "I can't believe we showered and stuff all those times together and he didn't even check me out. I mean, I'm not ugly. Christ, even Percy can get a bloke."

The surreality of the situation was getting to Hermione, feeling herself threatened with another fit of laughter. "Maybe," she choked out, "maybe Harry just doesn't like redheads."

Ron looked at her, pouting. "Don't be silly, 'Mione. I could have used this!"

"How?", demanded Hermione, giggling.

"Well, I could have let him down gently," Ron surmised. "And directed his affections somewhere more appropriate, like Hannah Abbot or Justin Finch-Fletchley." He made a face. "Anyone but the ferret."

"How noble of you," Hermione wheezed, doubled over again. "Although you do know Justin Finch-Fletchley's straight?"

Ron looked shocked. "Straight? With a surname like that?"

Hermione nodded, and gathered her books up off the floor, finally composing herself. "I know. I guess they just don't make stereotypes the way they used to."

For his part, Draco Malfoy had returned to the small Prefect's office, idly riffling through some paperwork, checking names of students who turned up to detention, and generally making himself aware of every tiny infraction concerning any Slytherin between first and sixth year - for if nothing else, knowledge was power.

He absently cast his mind over the day to come: Potions first, and that would hardly be a test of his abilities. Snape spent so much of his time dragging Gryffindors into grasping the basics that those students (such as Draco himself) who might seek to fly ahead were often left twiddling their thumbs. However, there would be Harry. Ever since their study arrangement had become common knowledge, the Potions Master typically paired them off together during class, as if hoping (and somewhat despairingly) that Draco's obvious ability in the subject might rub off on the (in)famous one.

Draco made a recommendation for some trifling third-year to be given Detention for a month, and chuckled to himself. Rub off on Harry? Hmm. That has potential. He knew, logically, that his feelings for, and association with Harry had created a kind of mild euphoria in his being: the kind of elated sensation Draco couldn't even remember feeling. He knew that the moment any problem found their path, the euphoria would most likely shatter, leaving empty depression behind. And there were so many problems just waiting...

Shaking his head irritably, he dismissed the unwanted thoughts. Now he finally had the one thing he'd wanted for so long, he would not let it go lightly. And yet...Harry himself seemed frustratingly distant at times. For all their cheerful banter, and ready flirting, it was if Harry could only spend time with him when the amusement was enough to cause Harry to forget who Draco was, and all he stood for. It seemed...insulting, and it rankled deep within the young Slytherin. Yes, they had to keep what they had a secret - Draco had no idea how his father would react, but he presumed it would not be favourable. And his father tied him to powers far more dark and fearful than those of Malfoy Manor...

But in the end, what did he and Harry have? A few amused comments, a few glances, indicative of stronger feeling. He knew that Harry understood how he felt: knew that all Harry needed to do was take one bloody look at Draco, and Draco was suddenly naked, in all his emotional vulnerability and neediness. Was it worth, putting himself on the line, and getting no apparent reward? It was not that he begrudged the time he spent with Potter - far from it, indeed. He'd gotten to know Harry - and to fall for him even more - in the past two weeks. What frustrated him was that he could not act upon those feelings, that he allowed himself to be confined by Harry's delicacy of emotion, or chivalrous privacy.

Besides, what did that say about Harry? Draco knew that there were good reasons why he didn't exactly shout his feelings for the other boy from the rooftops, and he respected his own neuroses. It was bad enough that the school had some inkling: petty, small-minded things, wanting to take a bit of the hero for themselves, force him into being their saviour due to their own weakness, and Draco would have liked nothing better than to kill them all rather than share one iota of his Harry. But he could not. And further; there were his own...worries. Everything he had been taught, everything he was, knew that this could not be. He did not know how to be happy with himself, let alone be happy with someone else, and instinctively he shirked from Harry. There were some things about himself he could not reveal; some part of himself that he would stake to and keep apart, just because he could remain inviolate, safe, untarnished at his core. He had been told love was a folly, a weakness, a rape, and yet...How could he give everything of himself up to another person for judgment? How could he trust that much, to someone who he loved despite the fact he was opposite to everything Draco was, and perhaps, also because of it. How could he risk everything, and damn himself with the words? And yet, he knew that some feelings still lay graven within him, like words on stone, prophecy and commandment, they would not fade.

He hated Harry Potter before he had met him; wanted to drive him into the dirt for merely existing, for stealing the chances Draco had had for love, and life, and familial happiness. Meeting him had merely added jealousy to the hatred; giving him an obsession, to win, to best, to claim someone who had the gall to turn him aside and deny Draco his perfection, to bring doubt to his existence by doing so. He had lived for four years with Potter in his ears, in his eyes, in his mind, his soul, his heart, his dreams - waiting for the moment when finally, he could beat Harry, and thereby prove himself worthy. Not to his parents, or the world, but to himself.

Draco had been brought up to see himself as perfect, and perfection was an impossible burden. And as other feelings had melded themselves amongst the shadows of his soul, and the terrible realisation that of all the people in the world, only Potter could challenge him, give his inarticulate rage some focus and meaning, respect, grudging affirmation, and a painful tenderness had entered Draco's heart. He had almost cried himself seeing the broken shell of what Harry had become for most of their fifth year: withdrawn, defeated, betrayed by what he perceived as his own weakness, his inability to save Cedric. And Draco had known in that moment that Harry's burden was also perfection, and that they had both been deceived.

That shell could provide him with no challenge, no glimmer of protest in the sullen eyes, and so Draco had become less than himself for a while, unable to function if Harry had not given him form as the school bully.

Exiting the Prefect's Room, and closing the door with a word, the outline fading back into stone, he sauntered down the corridors, books held under one arm. A gaggle of Hufflepuff girls walked towards him, fourth years, and he hated the sight of them. They had a tendency to giggle when they saw him, exchanging whispered comments behind their hands, as they did now. Of course, Draco knew realised exactly why they smirked, and chortled, and spread pointless inanities. Gossip, and gossip about he and Harry had been rife even before they started...associating together, and these three Hufflepuffs had been past masters of the over-active imagination. One of them, Aja, or something equally inane and unpronounceable, looked at him as they went past, grinning wide and full. Draco snorted. The fool girl was probably too caught up in visions of he and Harry fucking to realise how idiotic she looked, slack-jawed and staring. All that was needed to complete the tableau was some drool hanging from her lips. Draco had no doubt of the potency of such visions - his own sleep had been disturbed more than once by the idea, formed into picture, of his own superb form, and Harry, both naked and gleaming with sweat, playing out things Draco was far too cautious to name, let his own desperate need for them - for Harry - be revealed in turn.

He fought the desire to mock the cloying gossip of his schoolmates, to strike his books down to the floor and scream himself hoarse. How dare they laughed at him! How dare they profane his feelings, his want, his need! How dare they deemed what he felt to be so transparent, and worse, within their own purview of judgment! How dare they reduced him to some lovesick fool, when he could have informed them, cold and quaking, that just because he was - Draco refused to say the words - with Harry did not mean it made his hatred and his jealous rage any less. And most of all, how dare they claim Harry, for in talking about him, they claimed Harry, claimed what was Draco's own, and he would never forgive them for that, even if he knew how to forgive.

But he did not rant, or yell. Draco was mindful that such reactions would have revealed his own displeasure at this heightened awareness, his own vulnerability to the stares and gossip of others, and a Malfoy was never vulnerable.

Above it all, he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys took what they wanted, and gave no quarter. Instead, he turned, and made his way down the corridor to Arithmancy, offering up a bloody desire to see such gossips - defilers of what was his to dream about, and his alone! - got what they deserved.

Quiet, restrained, and perhaps a little bit cowed - this was the impression one got from the lines of students outside the Potions classroom, sixth year Gryffindor in single profile next to sixth year Slytherin. A few stragglers, Dean and Seamus amongst them, quickly filled out the lines. All students were rather desperate to avoid the ire of Professor Snape, who despite his obvious affection for his own House, would often delay Slytherins who had caused trouble and give them rather severe lectures on bringing the reputation of the House into disrepute. Suffice to say, very few Slytherins needed a second lecture.

On the dot of nine in the morning, the door swept open from the inside, Snape almost gliding out to loom over the students, inspecting the ranks with a glance. Fortunately, the entire class was there today, and so there was no need for words. He merely directed his eyes towards the door, and swept back in with a swirl of his robes, the students following his profile and filling in the rows of seats, getting out quill and parchment in order to begin the lesson.

Severus took his time to lower himself into his chair, keenly eyeing the collected group for those whose attention was less than acceptable. "You will be continuing the practical experiment from the previous lesson," he intoned quietly, giving them an incentive to prick up their ears and listen. "Those of you who have already prepared your ingredients will be able to spend the lesson making sure that your Hearthstone Ointment is ready; others however, will obviously have a lot of work to do if they do not wish to be staying in at morning break."

He watched, faintly amused as the students scattered into their pair groups, fighting over the best cauldrons, and going through the store cupboards on the side walls to find chopping boards with ingredients in various states of readiness, the boards themselves covered with Preservation Charms and small white notes with names such as "Malfoy/Potter" or "Parkinson/Zabini" indicating the workmanship.

Occasionally he would be forced to move himself from his desk and loom where appropriate - when faced with Snape, students generally forgot their silly quarrels over exactly who had that particular cauldron, or this mortar and pestle, and worked out a perfectly equitable arrangement. Most of the time, however, he was content to watch, and reflect.

One particular 'couple' caught his eye, seemingly unconcerned by the organised chaos around them, as they worked in the middle of the classroom. Potter and Malfoy were an unlikely combination at best: clashing egos, and decidedly different ways of approaching a problem. Draco, as always, was attempting to do at least three things at once, from reading the instructions he'd written down on parchment to bringing his cauldron to a boil, to checking the progress of any other students, his keen eyes alert for competition. And then, he was also checking up on Potter: although, Severus realised, not to make sure that Harry was doing the right thing, but merely out of personal concern.

When he had heard the rumours of a rapprochement in the infamous Potter/Malfoy rivalry, he had not been extremely surprised. There had been far too many unbridled emotions lurking under the surface for things to remain as they were, and seeing as they hadn't killed one another, an unlikely friendship seemed the only other option. Severus had quickly picked Draco's real intentions with regards to the Potter boy - Draco could be remarkably transparent at times, and his obsession had been available for all to see; but what surprised Snape was that Harry, despite the self-righteous Gryffindor cant he was accustomed to spouting, had not pushed the younger Malfoy away. And so, with his own curiosity in mind, he had begun pairing them in Potions, and even provided a feasible excuse for their friendship by suggesting publicly that Draco could help Potter study for Potions; a subject no Potter had ever been particularly gifted at, and one that Draco breezed through with carefree nonchalance. He did this for Draco, and perhaps for Lucius, although he doubted Lucius would approve.

Whereas Draco was typically aware of everything going on around him, Potter worked in a universe of his own, his entire essence focused upon the mortar and pestle in his hands, determined to make sure the roots were ground to a paste, sticking his lower lip out in concentration as he gradually added the Gorgon's milk. Such dedication Snape would have ordinarily approved, but this was Potter, and so he was hesitant. Harry turned then, to Draco, offering him the bowl without words, and Draco looked at it, before nodding. Potter beamed - far greater than if any teacher had given him praise, Snape noted - and the two shared a smile, Draco absently reaching out to touch Harry's arm before they moved onto their next tasks like a well-oiled machine.

It was this...familiarity that Severus remarked upon more than anything else. Draco would always touch Harry - one hand brushing against the other's elbow or arm, or gently resting on his back as they leaned over to look into the cauldron, and Potter never protested, or seemed unsettled by it at all, as if they were old friends. From all reports, they had only been studying together for two weeks, and this gentle intimacy was the result.

Draco had clearly forgotten who he was supposed to be. Lucius had never been this gentle - oh, and that was a mistake, comparing Draco to his father, especially in this situation. Or maybe not. Lucius had never been gentle with Snape himself, but Snape had always believed in the man's capacity for gentility, for love, although he doubted Lucius had shown it to anyone but James. He'd needed to believe that Lucius had that capacity, that humanity; unable to admit that he might have thrown away his heart to a monster. And in the end, Severus had seen just how human, how frail Lucius was, and that in itself had been the undoing: his feelings for Lucius had unraveled like a loose thread, and now he was fond of the man, fondness coupled with pity for someone who'd destroyed everything he'd cared about, simply because he did not know any better.

Draco was not his father, certainly; but he was his father's son in many ways. In the end, would he make the same decisions? Severus could do nothing, perhaps, but wait, and watch, and in his own quiet way, support him.

Perhaps he would have to be vaguely decent to Potter, now that Draco was openly in love with him. He watched them working together, and repressed a shudder. Nice to Potter? I wouldn't know how to begin.

Harry stepped back from the cauldron and wiped his hands on his robes, desperately wishing they had towels or something - Merlin only knew how he looked, with all the junk he'd gotten on his hands during the lesson. He looked at his outstretched palms, and grimaced. Oh well. At least they were clean now. Unfortunately, he had merely transferred the problem to his robes: but that was something he could ponder for later. Now, the problem was solved, and consequences be damned.

Draco was quietly watching the cauldron, counting off time under his breath, occasionally giving the thick mixture a stir. "Fine then," he commented, "all we have to do is wait for it to thicken."

"How long's that supposed to take?"

The other boy gestured to the piece of parchment, the instructions from last lesson written in Draco's elegant scrawl. "The parchment's closer to you."

With a snort, Harry took the parchment in his hands, skimming down the lines. "You're just a lazy sod, Malfoy."

"Yes, well, who's the friend of a lazy sod then?" Draco opined, grinning back at Harry.

"It's my duty, you know, taking care of the less fortunate."

"You must take care of your entire House, considering how lacking they are."

Harry cleared his throat, not entirely sure how to respond. Fortunately he was saved by schoolwork - Who would have thought that? he wondered - finding the correct passage. "Says we have to leave it overnight," he murmured, tapping the page with a finger.

"It does indeed, Mr. Potter," said the presence that loomed over him, causing Harry to rock back in his chair with a cry, Draco himself caught between concern and a smirk at Harry's misfortune. He decided to smirk.

"Sorry, Professor Snape, I, um, didn't see you there." Harry stammered, righting himself.

"That much is obvious, Potter. Such dedication to your study does behoove you, but next time, please pay attention to the real world," Snape lectured, gliding back to his desk and glancing briefly at the hourglass tucked away near the window frame. "I do declare the class is finished, so obviously some of you will be staying with us during the morning break - yes, that does include you, Zabini, don't try to sneak out - and some will not, such as Messers Malfoy and Potter here. Good work," he said curtly, as the class began to break up into those who could, relieved, pack away their things, and those who with a sigh continued to toil over cauldrons.

"So, I'll see you later then," Harry remarked to Draco, doing his best to sound nonchalant.

"After dinner, yes. We did go over this at breakfast," Draco replied, rolling his eyes. "Or have you forgotten already, Harry?"

"Oh, Draco, how could I forget anything that involves you?" Harry chorused, half-mocking, before realising how that could be taken, and turning a bright red, he grabbed his books and slunk off through the students, trying to ignore the rich sound of Draco's laughter behind him.

Ducking and weaving through the throngs of students emerging from classrooms for the beginning of morning break, Harry found Ron and Hermione in deep conversation, or rather; Hermione in full flight, and wedged himself between the two.

"-I mean, it's Heartstone Ointment, and as such, it is a rather difficult practical to do correctly, even for Sixth Years, although Professor Snape does always like to challenge us - though it seems more as if he's waiting for us to fail sometimes, it really does, so I was quite proud of the fact that as far as I can tell I achieved the desired result, and when we return to class tomorrow it should of, indeed, thicken correctly overnight, and honestly Ron, you virtually let me do all the work which I'm not happy about, and oh! Hello Harry!"

"Hello, Hermione, Ron," Harry greeted them, beaming. "Did you see? Snape told me 'good work!' Snape!"

Hermione looked kindly at him. "Harry, he's probably only saying that because he paired you with Draco-"

Ron butted in. "Yeah, you know he can't resist complimenting the little shit, so he had to compliment you as well."

"Don't call him that," Harry commented, irritably, and walked ahead.

Ron stopped and looked at Hermione. "What did I do?"

"You called his boyfriend a little shit, Ron, what did you expect?"

There was a loud groan in front of them. "He is not my boyfriend, alright?"

Lucius was in London on business when he heard the news, and quickly raced (in a suitably composed manner) to King's Cross Station, and trying not to let his displeasure show, brusquely bought a ticket and boarded the train. The previous avenues which were available to him as a member of the School's Governing Board were no longer open to him; now he had to sit on the train and be good like any other citizen, and it rankled.

He tapped the inside of his right thigh, stroking his chin with forefinger and thumb, as he gazed out the window. Dumbledore would here of this. Oh yes.

Storming off the train, he made his way to the public access to the moat, and climbed aboard the ferry, wrinkling his nose slightly at the water-goblins who ran it; their presence was odious enough, let alone he had to cross their palm with silver in order to cross.

It was merely a short walk for Lucius, suitcase in hand, to stride through the gates and into the main courtyard. Making his way into the Entrance Hall he saw a black pointed hat and smiled grimly. It was as he had hoped: McGonagall, the dried up harpy.

"Professor," he called out, in his most oily of tones.

She turned, and glared at him. He knew from experience (as well as Draco's reporting) that she did that with everyone. Dozy old cow, he thought, grumbling to himself. Thinks she can treat everyone like a first year.

"Why, Lucius Malfoy. What a pleasant surprise," Minerva McGonagall spread her hands wide, but her expression betrayed how much truth went into her words. "What can I do for you? It is morning break, so I have many errands to run."

"I wish to see Dumbledore." Lucius ground his teeth together, and McGonagall put on a hurt expression.

"Professor Dumbledore? Oh, he's busy I'm afraid. Come with me, I'll do my best to help."

Lucius stood his ground, refusing to move. "I will not leave until I have met with the Headmaster," he said quietly. "I actually wish to speak to someone with authority, Minerva," he commented, taking some small satisfaction at seeing her eyes flash.

Stepping on the balls of her feet, gently swaying, she looked at him with an expression that clearly stated how odiously horrible she believed he was, pursing her lips together. "This way, please."

Lucius followed with a curt nod as she led him down the corridor. Wrinkled prune. Unlike fine wine, she does not get better with age.

Finally he was led to a painting, and Minerva stood in front, head cocked to one side, almost touching the canvas. Lucius rolled his eyes, having long gotten used to these absurd displays of ostentation. Sighing audibly, he suffered through a patented McGonagall glare as she leant back to the painting and whispered "fuzzy slipper."

There was a hollow grating noise and the painting slipped aside leaving a darkened corridor. McGonagall straightened up, blinking at Lucius' raised eyebrow. "I have no idea what it means," she said, somewhat irritably. "I just do what I'm told, remember? I have no authority!"

With a harrumph she continued on her way down the corridor - probably to give some innocent Slytherin an undeserved detention, Lucius thought. With that, he slipped into the darkened corridor, taking not three steps to suddenly find himself in a lit spacious study, walled with books and ornaments. That...horrendous creature, Dumbledore's pet phoenix glared at him, but as with most things which hated him, Lucius paid it no heed.

Albus Dumbledore stood, reading over a scroll on his desk, petting his beard. "Please, sit down, won't you Lucius?", he remarked, gesturing to a chair, and waiting till the other man was seated before joining him. Dumbledore had hoped the man would have arrived earlier; but it seemed that Lucius' own hard-headed capacity for self-denial had worked against Albus this time. Of all the times when he needed to be thinking, planning, alert...he had to deal with this - a man who destroyed his own chance for love, and refused to grow up because of it.

Albus sighed inwardly and waited for the storm to hit.

"I have heard...rumours, Albus. Disturbing rumours about my son and," he grimaced, as if tasting something horrid, "the Potter boy."

"As far as I know, they are friends, Lucius," the older man responded, trying to keep his tone jovial. "You would not disdain your son for having friends?"

Lucius smiled. It was not pleasant. "Of course not," he ingratiated, "But I know that...Harry....is the target of certain....dark powers, shall we say? And I would not want my son becoming a similar target."

Albus smiled back. "Well, then, I suppose you'd have to talk to your people about that, Lucius. Ask them if they could stop trying to kill Harry for your son's sake. I would love to hear their reaction."

Lucius' eyes flashed, and his hands whitened, the fingers tightening into fists. "I wish to see Severus," he said softly. "I wish to discuss my son with his Head of House."

"As is your right, as any parent," Dumbledore assured him, looking over his half-moon spectacles to glance at the clock on the far wall. "I think you'll find Severus has just finished teaching your son, and he has is free next period, as well." Looking down at the parchment on his desk, his tone was cordial but a dismissal nonetheless. "I think you know the way."

Lucius strode from the room, a tower of self-contained fury, and Albus released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "It's alright, you can come out now," he called, watching as a taller, lankier form stood out from the shadows, moving from behind a drape.

Sirius Black gazed after the path Lucius Malfoy had taken with barely-disguised hate. "That man," he growled, baring his teeth. "He should be gutted for what he did to James. And threatening Harry! The nerve."

"What he did to James," Dumbledore began softly, "is something that I believe Lucius is all too aware of. And that I think, is punishment enough. Now, please, be seated."

"Yes, yes," Sirius muttered, seating himself and looking up. "You said you had a proposal for me?"

Albus nodded slowly. "I want you to leave."

To Severus' odious displeasure, it had been a Slytherin pair - Parkinson, with her typical distaste for anything resembling work, and Zabini, who were the last to leave, finally settling their cauldron down to simmer during the day. Severus returned to his desk, and wrote up the day's lesson, noting student behaviour and such for his own benefit, to check if any progress was being made, and in addition, the notes would help him fill up space when he was asked to write reports at the end of term.

The door to his classroom flew open with a bang, and Severus looked up, a pithy retort on his face, and woe betide any student who dared interrupt him. But no, it was Lucius Malfoy who was striding towards him, fury on his face, and Lucius Malfoy was on fire. Settling down his quill, Snape made his way around the desk, and was only partially prepared for the almost-psychopathic anger of the other man, Lucius grabbing his shoulder and shaking him like a muggle rag doll.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lucius near-foamed, and there was no need to ask the subject.

"Because you would be like this," Severus said, softly, "because no matter what I said, you would be like this. You forget, Lucius, I know you."

"You still should have told me," Lucius glowered, releasing him.

"And do what?" Snape retorted, stinging. "Watched as it tore you apart, all over again, because you still haven't let him go?"

Lucius stepped back, his anger growing cold, and all the more frightening because of it - to anyone else but Severus, of course. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"James." Snape said flatly. "What else is there? And oh, I suppose you'll hit me now. Haven't gotten violent since the last time we fucked; I guess it could make an interesting change, if about ten years too late."

As he planned, the sarcasm washed over Lucius like a bucket of cold water, forcing himself to regain his self control. "I put my son's livelihood in your hands, Severus."

"Last time I checked he was still living," the other man retorted. "Although he did seem happy; and Merlin forbid he be that."

Lucius closed his eyes, pausing to reassess the situation. "I could still interfere. Take him from Hogwarts; place him in Durmstrang."

"You could. And he'll hate you, Lucius."

The blond man smiled thinly. "Since when have I ever wanted to be loved?"

Severus chuckled. "Yes. Good point. But...give him a chance."

"His feelings are...known."

"I would expect so. This place has many eyes and ears, and not all are friendly towards you, or I." Death Eater politics was notoriously murky, with all kinds of factions and alliances, and multiple allegiances. Essentially, most of the Slytherins were involved, and they would sell each other out in order to be closer to Voldemort.

There was a pause. "I will give Draco this chance. However, I expect a favour in return."

"Of course. Since when did Lucius Malfoy ever give anything without payment?" He sighed. "What do you want me to do?"

Lucius leaned him, his smile mocking. "Ixiptla."

Severus' eyes opened wide. He hadn't heard that word in, well, more than sixteen years. "Merlin. You're going behind his back. And you want me to help."

"Why not," Lucius offered, his voice like silk. "You're in Dumbledore's pocket as it is, aren't you?"

The blood froze in Severus' veins, and Lucius continued. "Oh, our Lord and Master doesn't realise, but I know you, Severus. You've been feeding us white bread ever since you returned, combined with just enough real information to make you seem...well, what you appear to be. A loyal servant." He smiled, moving closer. "Yet you're not. Now, I could have told Voldemort this, but you know, as the person who inducted you into our ranks, I would probably also find myself punished as a result, and there's little I can do for either of us, being deceased. Besides, you could yet be useful to me. And look. You are."

"Why go against him now?" Severus asked, recoiling from any proximity. "Why didn't you save James?"

Lucius swallowed, emotions flickering across his face. "Because James wouldn't have me anymore, not after my...affiliations became public knowledge."

"You still didn't want him to die."

"No, I didn't, but I couldn't save him, and there was no fucking point," Lucius breathed. "But now Voldemort is going to take my son and I will not let him. I've ruined his life enough," he added with a bleak humour. "I think it's time I made some recompense besides a new broom."

"Why don't you just tell Draco how much you love him?"

"I," Lucius fumbled for words, "wouldn't know what to say. And I've made sure he wouldn't know how to listen. So. You'll look this up for me, won't you, Severus? You want to save Draco as much as I."

Severus nodded, slowly. "Non-western systems of magic aren't my speciality," he sighed, "but I'll try. Lupin knows this kind of thing, but I can hardly ask him."

"Start with the obvious." Lucius assured him. "You're a Professor, after all. It's Aztec at its core, and it affects conception. My son was brought into the world for a purpose. I want to stop it."

"I don't know if we can."

"You will try," intoned Lucius. "You will try, or I might as well expose you."

"That would endanger you."

"I have nothing left to live for!", hissed the other man. "If I cannot undo my life's work, than I might as well play the obedient little Death Eater and at least that way I can say there is something I did not fail at."

Severus breathed. "I will try. But you know as well as I, the kind of design intended for Draco. This isn't just saving your son. You have to go against the Dark Lord. And if it doesn't work, you'll be dead."

"Exactly," Lucius replied. "And then I will be blissfully unaware of my son's fate, unable to see the depravity I sold him into. It's pretty much a win-win situation for me." He moved off, absently looking down at the desks, one hand drifting across the surface as if checking for dirt. "He's the only thing I've got left, Severus. I am too far mired in death, broken by pride and guilt and damned by my impotence. Narcissa was broken by her own need, and I willingly aided that damnation," he said, avoiding the other man's gaze. "Now she flees into a bottle to escape. Draco is the only thing I can save. He is my hope." The taller man walked away, closing the door behind him.

"He is the Dark Lord's hope, as well," Severus breathed into the empty room.

Narcissa Malfoy was very careful. She'd learnt to be: had to be, with Lucius as her husband. Not that he ever hit her - certainly not. That would be far too unrestrained, far too human for Lucius, and besides, it was ungentlemanly, and Merlin forbid he prove himself to be something other than a gentleman. There were other ways of keeping her under control. She remembered about ten years ago, when she had begun to protest about the direction Lucius was taking her son. He'd told the house elves that the mistress of the house was ill, and watched as they'd dragged her off, crying to her quarters, and refused her access to anything: no books, no food, no Draco. In the end, she'd capitulated, because it was never just about her; it was about her son, and how could any principle be worth depriving a son of his mother?

Lucius had told Draco she had been unwell, and after three days of not eating, Narcissa had imagined she looked the part. She'd smiled gently when Lucius had brought him in to see her, and ruffled his hair, glad to see those little arms still wanting a hug. She mumbled whatever excuse her husband had told her to: she couldn't exactly tell Draco his father had his mother locked up whenever she disagreed, she couldn't, and so another lie had been added to the Malfoy family heritage. She had attempted to fight Lucius a few more times, when Draco was young, and there was still a chance of filling him with light, and laughter and joy: but she had ended up memorising the pale outline of her ceiling every time, and after a few years, Narcissa had known that her son would be a Malfoy, and nothing more.

Now she crept through the empty halls of the Manor, on the lookout for any house-elves or human servants. They knew where the power lay in this place, and consequently their loyalties were firmly tied to Lucius. She supposed briefly she must look ridiculous: this middle-aged woman in a lace gown, tiptoeing around corners, back up against the wall as if it made any real difference. Shaking off this flight of fancy, she walked stately and elegantly, as the Lady of the House should: if no other reason than if she behaved normally, she was less likely to attract suspicion. And what did it matter, if a servant found her tiptoeing? Narcissa Malfoy would not tiptoe; it was incredibly undignified.

In Lucius' study, she quietly unlocked his desk, her veins racing ice cold with fear, and sorted through the papers in his drawers to find what she wished: the official Malfoy family stationery, with crest on envelope and card. It was a relatively simple matter to find quill and inkpot, wetting the quill whilst she sorted out exactly what to write. The invitation would need to be for a day when Lucius wasn't at home, of course. A relatively easy thing to do, considering he was often in London on business. There was also the freedom of her guest to consider: getting someone away from Hogwarts was no easy task. In the end, she had to make out the invitation and trust to fate.

It was a long walk to the house Owlery, and so Narcissa walked, determined, one step in front of the other, a small envelope clutched between her fingers. Trusting to fate was hardly the most intelligent of policies, considering the way fate had directed events so far; but Narcissa had little choice. Fate had stranded her here, and now it seemed she just had to grab onto any passing hope, and cling for dear life. With that hope, she could perhaps avoid damning anyone to a similar fate.

It was so easy to tie the envelope to the owl, and send it flying. When you had already paid the price, so many times, it was as if the consequences didn't exist. Once it was done, of course, she needed a stiff drink. And unfortunately, there was not enough alcohol in the world to make her forget her promises.

Draco emerged from Arithmancy, and made his way along the corridors towards the Prefect's Room, parchment and books slung under an arm. He passed through the Entrance Hall, and stopped for a moment to examine the patriotic monstrosity that had been erected two weeks ago, although he'd barely paid it heed. It was a large tapestry, oblong shaped and rising from the ground, standing on its own. The scene was typical Dumbledore, he mused; the four founding members of Hogwarts depicted in such a pleasant manner, hands joined as they created the school around them. This was before Salazar decided to ban the Muggleborn and went at least a little bit insane, but Draco supposed that a more truthful depiction wouldn't suit Dumbledore's school pride at all. He manipulates people as much as Voldemort, Draco thought, and his only justification is that he does it for the 'right reasons,' and as he tends to win, we invariably believe him.

Chuckling to himself, Draco continued on his way down a side passage, not noticing the rodent that poked around the tapestry and its frame - for no Malfoy would pride himself on acknowledging the existence of a squib, let alone a mere rodent. Everything had its place in the Malfoy world, and most of it wasn't worthy enough of attention. Of course, if Draco had bothered to stoop down, and look, he would have noticed that this particular rodent had a silver paw.

Granger was there waiting for him, her arms crossed, and so predictable it made Draco want to laugh. He plucked a series of parchments from under his arm and held them up, dropping them on the small desk next to her. "Your Arithmancy notes," he said, "and oh, Professor Vector wants to see you in your free."

The young woman nodded and gathered them up, briefly skimming. Draco didn't exactly see why she was allowed to take two electives - alright, perhaps he did, considering she was beating him in every subject except Potions - but still. If the rules had to be broken, he didn't see why they had to be broken for a Mudblood.

Without even looking at him, she admonished him, and that rankled as well. "Don't you smirk at me," she cautioned, putting the notes back down. "That bloody 'oh look at me, aren't I in control and I know everything about you merely by looking so ha, you're pathetic' smirk."

Draco blinked, taken aback, and his smile widened. "Going to slap me, Granger? Seeing as that seems to be the limit of your capacity."

His remark was greeted with a snort, and Draco continued. "It's incredible, really. The fact you can just pick apart the minds of others oh so easily, and yet you haven't got a damn clue about yourself, have you? Must make you feel all the more alone."

He saw that his comment had hit its mark as Granger straightened up, her face taut with anger. "And what about you, Malfoy?" she shot back. "Chasing after Harry? You can't show him off, cause that would demean him - and you; you can't love him, because Merlin forbid, love's a weakness; you can't let him love you, because you'd rather watch the world collapse that admit you need anyone. And the alternative?" she asked softly, Draco avoiding her eyes. "To not have him, and not love him, and not be loved by him, if things end up that way? Could you bear it?"

The young Slytherin didn't answer.

"Don't talk to me about psychology, then," Hermione breathed, sighing. "It's a bit like the Hippogriff calling the Basilisk a monster." She absently tucked a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. "Now, we had to discuss that second year of yours?"

Draco nodded, and relatively soon they were engrossed in work.

It wasn't until much later that day that the three friends managed to bump into one another again, separated as they were by different classes and study periods, and then the frenetic rush for dinner, in which neither was especially in the mood for talking - although Hermione would comment that that was solely because Ron was too busy indulging his stomach, and Harry not far behind.

The journey back to the Gryffindor dorms was relatively quiet - not counting the occasional burp, and slight groans from the two boys, who had seemingly eaten just a tad too much. Sighing, Hermione gave the password and went inside, Harry and Ron following with the usual comments about Quidditch (the tryouts would be announced tomorrow at breakfast, and they were going over possibilities for the Gryffindor team), mixed with somewhat reluctant praise for the dinner they'd just gobbled down.

"Want to play some chess, Harry?," Ron asked as they trampled inside, clearly bored.

"No," Harry responded, rather offhand, "I promised Draco I'd meet him for study after dinner was finished. We left early, but I still haven't got much time to get ready." Harry stopped, noticing that the entire room had gone relatively silent, apart from a few whispers and giggles, the attention uncomfortably focused upon him.

"Get ready?", Ron asked, somewhat surly, "What, you have to make sure you're looking suitably ravishing for your date?"

Lavender and her coterie giggled, looking at them from one of the couches, nestled in front of the hearth.

Harry's eyes widened. "It is not a date," he hissed, grabbing Ron and steering him into a deserted corner.

Hermione tutted, and crossed her arms. "Honestly, Ron, that was a rather childish outburst of you."

"Oh, Hermione, stop doing your best to sound like Percy," Ron admonished. "And Harry? What else would you call it? You're excited. You want to 'get ready'. Merlin, it sounds like a date to me."

"I've already told you why I'm hanging with Draco - Malfoy", Harry said, scuffing his shoe on the carpet. Ron just snorted, and Hermione attempted to conciliate.

"Harry," she began, modulating her voice and making soothing body language, just as she had read in Wizard Anger Management: A Practical Guide, "I know you've given us this...excuse as to why you're associating with Draco, but don't you see that it does appear a mite...convoluted. Even for you."

"Even for me?" Harry asked, pushing his glasses up his nose, like he always did when he was angry and not wanting to show it. "What do you mean?"

Ron let out a deep breath. "Look, even I don't believe you'd go to all this trouble just to get information out of Malfoy. Besides, there are better sources." He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Snape's on our side, remember?"

"I know that!" hissed Harry. "I just don't want him to end up on the wrong side."

"Merlin, Harry, he's a survivor. Draco Malfoy will only follow the best interests of Draco fucking Malfoy - you know that. He's probably the one most likely to survive a war, if it comes to that. Like a cockroach, really."

Hermione nodded, her arms still folded defensively. "Harry, do you like him?"

"Well," he began, "I've gotten to know him better, over the past two weeks, and he can be good company, yes. I'd even consider him a friend." Harry paused. "That does not mean I want to tear his robes off him, though. So sorry to disappoint."

"Yes," Hermione objected, "we accept that, fine. But he obviously has stronger feelings for you - what happens when he finally realises you're not going to-"

"Put out," Ron suggested, rather tactlessly.

"Yes, thank you for that, Ron," Hermione glared, and waited for a response.

"Look, I understand that. I think it's also clear that as he does love me, he'll be understanding."

Hermione snorted, and hid her laughter behind her hand. "Oh, Harry. That's the most naive thing you've ever said. And you've said a lot of naïve things."

Ron directed a fervent 'stay out of this' look at Hermione, who shuffled backward, and started in on his best friend. "He doesn't love you, Harry. No matter what he's said, he isn't capable of love."

Harry looked hurt. "Draco doesn't deserve that, Ron. No-one does. And even if I begin to accept what you're saying, why has he been treating me so well?"

"Because he just wants to fuck you, that's all." He attempted a passable imitation of Draco's typical drawl. "'Oh, Look at me everyone, aren't I great, I managed to seduce the Boy Who Lived'." Ron's arguments got more desperate as Harry started shaking his head. "That's all. He just wants to use you as a trophy, Harry! If he says anything nice, it's just to get down your pants! That's what you do when you want someone, Harry. You tell them whatever you think will get you laid! Merlin knows, I've done it!"

Upon reflection, Ron thought, that probably might not have been the best admission to make. Especially considering the sudden crack that was Hermione's outstretched palm coming in contact with his cheek, and the near manic fury she exhibited.

"What do you mean," she yelled, somehow keeping her voice low in tone yet projecting perfectly, "'you tell them whatever you think will get you laid?' What did you tell me, Ron? Lies?"

Ron slowly rubbed the mark on his cheek, seemingly unaware of the entire room now deathly silent, looking at him and 'Mione, and Harry standing off to one side, unsure, tentative, clearly looking for a solution and finding none. "Considering you're about as sexual as Moaning Myrtle, whatever I told you clearly didn't work."

"Oh, that was low, that really was. But considering you can barely string two words together, I shouldn't have expected any better!"

Harry attempted to get between them. "Look, I think it's clearly obvious that we're not thinking properly and saying things we don't mean, so-" He stopped, visibly frightened, when Hermione turned her glowering face on him, and almost growled.

"Go off with your...boyfriend and leave us to sort this out," she spat.

"Hermione!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Harry, but you went off and sulked for most of last year, and yes, we knew you were going through some very difficult times. But you wouldn't let us help, and so Ron and I became closer. Now why would you expect to understand what's going on between me and this walking hormone here-" the last was directed at Ron, who was still seething, "when you didn't show any interest? Just go, and do whatever it is you do with Draco, and tell whatever lies you need to tell yourself to do it. Just go, Harry."

"Walking hormone?" Ron shouted back, under her final words. "Walking hormone? Oh, just because I want to have sex some time potentially in the next fifty years, I'm a walking hormone! Perhaps I would have more luck if I gave you a step-by-step guide, complete with appendices and index!"

"You'd be lucky you'd recognise it on a bookshelf!"

Realising that he could not do a single thing, Harry shook his head, and wandered off to where Lavender and her coterie of fellow Trelawney acolytes were sitting. She was admiring her pink nail vanish and nodding her head. "I saw it yesterday, in class," she said, her lips pressed thinly together. "I knew they'd have some rough times, those two, could see it in their auras."

"Lavender?"

She looked up, and smiled instantly. "Oh, Harry, it's terrible isn't it?"

"Erm, yes," replied Harry, a little put off by her self-satisfied mood. "I have to go meet Draco-"

"Oh yes?" Harry was blinded by the predatory enthusiasm of her smile. The idea that people were interested in the concept of 'Harry and Draco'; let alone excited about it, about what he and Draco might...'do' together, disturbed him. Perhaps because of the fact that his business now appeared to be public domain, or perhaps because in judging other people's feelings concerning 'Harry and Draco', he had to consider his own. And that, Harry Potter, defeat of Voldemort, Boy Who Lived, Likely Heir of Gryffindor, quailed at.

"As such, could you help?"

Lavender looked blankly at him, before realisation dawned. "Oh! Them!"

"Thanks, Lavender, I've got to go!" Harry bounded up the stairs, heedless of her reply, grabbed his books - slightly annoyed he didn't have time to freshen up, if for no other reason than Draco always looked as if he'd just walked out of a salon or something, not a hair out of place - bounded down the stairs again, to find the two still arguing, and washing his hands of the impossible responsibility, he bounded out the portrait hole. That was the problem with being a hero: people invariably expected you to save the world on a daily basis - and they generally constituted 'the world' as anything pertaining to themselves.

Sighing as if it was an infinite chore, Lavender got up, and quickly dismissed her groupies as a potential source of help. "Seamus Finnigan! You get over here!"

The young Irish man, who'd been busy chatting with Dean, both curled up on one of the chairs, blinked, darting over. "What did I do? I didn't do anything! You haven't got any proof. Have you?"

Lavender took him in hand and gestured at the still feuding couple over in the corner, their taunts available for all to hear. "Help me get those two separated."

"Oh, sure. I can do that." Seamus nodded, smiling. He wandered over to Ron, and Lavender did the same to Hermione, gently tapping each on the shoulder at the same time.

"Ron, mate," Seamus began, "I think it might be a good time for a tactical retreat."

"Hermione," enquired Lavender, "don't you have some study to do?"

"Retreat? What do you mean?"

"Study? Well, I guess I wouldn't hurt to do a rough draft of the History of Magic research proposal that's due next month..." She murmured, allowing herself to be led off by the other girl, looking behind her at Ron: torn between resolving the dispute and escaping from it.

"Yes, and I heard Professor Binns the other day talking to McGonagall. Apparently you're in danger of slipping a percentage point. He's most disappointed."

"I can't see where I could have lost anything," Hermione's voice grew somewhat frantic. "I'd better go over all my notes, and all the assignments I've handed in thus far," taking the steps up to the girls' dormitory, and truth be told, she was glad of the excuse to leave.

Seamus sighed. "Well, Ron, think of what you've just told the room."

Ron thought about it, and after a short while, he blinked, turning red. "I've told them I'm still a virgin."

"That's right."

"Oh. Shit." Ron scarpered up to the boys' dorms in an instant, and Seamus and Lavender nodded at one another, pleased with a job well done.

Seamus returned to his seat, and beamed at Dean. "Did you see how I handled that? Brilliant, I was."

"It was hardly difficult," pointed out Dean. "Ron's liable to scarper the moment you point out anything."

"Well, yes, but - you're missing the point."

"And since wasn't it a bit hypocritical?"

"What do you mean?"

Dean coughed. "You haven't exactly lost your virginity either."

"No," Seamus admitted. "I've been waiting for the right person to come along." Trouble is, he thought, looking at his best friend, I think it could be you.

A few hours later, and Harry and Draco were tucked up in one of the private study chambers Dumbledore had set up for Sixth and Seventh years throughout the castle, surrounding them with wards and such so that only those who truly intended to study could access them.

Right now, the two young men were curled up over books on a table, shoes discarded under said table so they could stretch their toes and warm them near the hearth. And everything that Harry did, Draco saw.

He wasn't quite sure exactly when his obsession with getting Harry to notice him had turned into respect, and the hatred coloured with affection, and later, love. But it had happened, and he now seemed powerless to prevent it. Didn't really want to, anyway: if truth be told, a part of him had been relieved upon recognising the emotion, part of him glad he had been able to love. Of course, there was a large part of him that still screamed and thrashed at the very thought of love, and every time he heard that voice, he would look at Harry sitting next to him, and tell himself that this was no weakness.

Draco told himself that a lot.

And part of it was complicated by Harry's own reluctance. They could never actually admit any feelings, or be public as a 'couple' (and Draco was hardly certain they were even a couple, or that he wanted to be a 'couple', because it sounded so normal and boring and mundane, and Draco could never be mundane). They should almost invent an entirely new word just to describe him and Harry, something that was theirs, and untainted by association with anyone else. Despite this, he was more than a little disappointed that Harry, Gryffindor icon, martyr and presumed saviour of waifs, kittens and other lost causes such as love (amongst other good pure motives), had not protested the secrecy. Indeed, Harry seemed quite satisfied with the way things were, and that niggled at Draco, for even if the situation could not be changed, he wanted Harry to want to change it. It would have been indicative of Harry's feelings towards him, and therefore quite selfish on Draco's part, but whoever said he was not selfish obviously had never met Draco in person.

Harry was diligently going through some of Draco's potions notes, stopping every now and then to ask questions, or reread a sentence, or follow a trail of thought to his own parchment. But most often he was quiet, his gaze directed solely at the lines in front of him, and Draco loved to see that concentration in his face; the furrowed brow, the focus in the green eyes, every muscle in Harry's body screaming, 'I will do this, and not before I have done it will I give up.'

Harry for his part, was not unaware of Draco's gaze, but he had gotten used to it, like many things about Draco, and in his own way, he had come to appreciate and even enjoy it. The idea of someone watching him was perhaps a little disturbing - why would anyone want to watch me? - but to extend the thought, and recognise that someone enjoyed his company, enjoyed just looking at him, well, that filled Harry with all kinds of feelings he didn't how to name, let alone express. Someone, it seemed, cared solely about him. Not him as hero, or him as supportive friend, or any other category people attempted to shove him in. Draco Malfoy looked at Harry Potter, and considering Draco's prejudices and antipathy towards Harry's fame, the only thing he could see was Harry Potter.

Draco continued watching, and Harry felt...wonderful that he did. They didn't talk much, admittedly. It wasn't the uncomfortable silence that had greeted them when they first started studying, unsure how to talk or act or even think about one another; as if their ingrained rivalry had placed any polite behaviour outside the realms of possibility. That first moment of quiet connection they had found the other week had been lost, neither entirely willing to attempt it: Draco not wishing to remember his obvious delight in being with Harry, and Harry not wanting to continue the game, and insult Draco's feelings even further. If anything, he wished to find a common ground of more-than-friendship that didn't demand his overt manipulation of the boy sitting with him, a covenant by which he could hold onto some modicum of his morality and self-respect, and perhaps find a way out of the Faustian bargain he had made. He would make no more bad promises.

On the third night of studying, Draco had finally broken the tension with a pithy insult. "Scared of talking to me, Potter?", he had said. "Don't worry, I'll keep everything to words of two syllables or less, so you won't be strained." Harry had laughed despite himself, and seen a now-familiar twinkling in Draco's eyes in response, and asked a question about that day's lesson, to which Draco had led him through the notes, and the theory.

He wasn't the best of teachers: liable to get short-tempered when Harry couldn't see something Draco saw as obvious, unable to conceive the differences between him and others, possibly, as Harry thought, because others were always a distant vision to Draco; unsubstantial because they were not him.

They talked when they needed to, and it seemed to Harry sometimes as if he didn't need to talk to communicate, as if Draco would simply understand what he was trying to do, or exactly how he had a problem with this aspect of Potions, because invariably Draco did, and took it in his stride.

Rubbing his eyes, he laid the notes back down on the table, and attempted to stifle a yawn. "I think I get it," he murmured, not managing to control himself this time, and yawning loudly before continuing, "but then, everything seems kind of fuzzy, so I'm probably just understanding the fuzziness."

Draco chuckled, and reached out, doing something he'd never done before - cover Harry's hand with his, wrapping his fingers around to gently squeeze. In other circumstances, Harry might have jumped back, but Draco's skin was so soft, and it felt rather good - to be touched. For the vast majority of his life, he'd associated human touch with people who shied away from him as something unclean, freakish, disturbing their middle-class suburbia, and at best, whapped him round the ears until Harry learnt that his place was not amongst them, and stopped his struggle. He had learnt that touch could be comforting, thanks to the hugs of Ron and Hermione, and the Weasley family, and supportive - say when people rubbed or patted his back after a Quidditch match, although Harry was never quite sure if that was because they viewed him as a lucky charm they could benefit from. He knew by now that the crowd wanted a piece of the Boy Who Lived, and wasn't willing to let him go, not just yet. But he had never been touched this way, gently and yet possessively, as if Draco wanted to wrap his arms around Harry simply to prove that he could. It felt dangerous, this possession, and Harry rather liked it. It meant being wanted; it meant having someone he could let go with, and surrender to, without any worry of consequences.

Harry covered Draco's hand with his own, stroking slightly, and looking at him, smiling, although his weariness shone in his eyes.

"Oh, my poor Harry," Draco murmured, brushing Harry's fringe back. "You are tired. I should get you to bed."

"Just don't have your wicked way with me," Harry slurred. "I have a reputation to maintain, you know."

Draco grinned. "Oh, I don't think you'd find it that wicked," he said, helping Harry to rise.

"Why do you always have to be so mean to everyone?" Harry asked, his tiredness overcoming any semblance of tact he might have had. "I mean, you've been wonderful to me these past few weeks. Why can't you be like that with everyone?"

"Everyone's not you."

"That's not an answer. You're avoiding the question," Harry gently accused the other, feeling Draco's arm slip around his waist to support him. "Do you really think that people won't respect you if they don't fear you?"

"Human nature tells me it's the only way to guarantee it."

"But I don't like it when you're mean. I like it when you're nice, like when you're nice to me."

Draco chuckled, and almost swung Harry round to face him. "I like it when I'm nice to you, as well. Makes me think all kinds of things," he said softly, wistfully, and as if trying to chase away those thoughts, he kissed Harry, then and there.

Now, Harry had been kissed before. There had been a couple of very clumsy attempts in Fifth Year, and Hannah Abbott had tried to suck his tongue out on one rather memorable occasion. But this gentility, he wasn't used to it at all. Not even as Draco slipped his other arm round Harry's waist to hold him, loosely, and kissed his lips sweetly, encouraging Harry to kiss back, if for no other reason than it felt so good.

When after what seemed like an eternity of pleasant torture, Draco kissed him deeper, Harry parted his lips without complaint, feeling Draco slide his tongue inside to flick it against Harry's own. God, he thought disjointedly, I must be crap compared to him. How does anyone get so good at this? He felt light headed, which was probably true as every drop of blood in his body felt as though it was pooling into his groin, and Harry moaned wetly, hands by his sides, a willing victim.

And despite surly antipathy against the Dursleys, hidden rebellion against a world that left him bereaved and shoved him in a closet, a world that forced him to always fight, to struggle, to win, to survive, to be aware of consequences and boundaries and focus his anger, rather than letting it loose; a cold barrier of isolation and despite against those who could never understand, never know what it meant to be him. He had never given up: even when Cedric died, he had been beaten beyond his ability to struggle further, but he had still raged, still hated, still cried out 'no!' against the abomination he'd seen.

Yet for the first time in his life, Harry Potter surrendered, completely and of his own free will, to smooth caresses against jaw and cheek, pale silken hair in his fingers, and the sweet agony of a kiss.