Unthinkable Thoughts

A WINTER'S TALE

Over the following weeks, the tension in Gryffindor Tower went from Bad to Worse, passed through Bloody Awful and eventually levelled off at Utterly Intolerable.

In mid November the unseasonably mild weather was brought to a swift end with a day of odd stillness as the weather changed direction, and then a cold front swept in from the North East, bringing with it biting winds and sharp icy mornings. The temperature dropped by about ten degrees in under two days, but whatever the chill factor outside the castle, it was nothing to the frostiness that now pervaded the Fifth Year Boys' Dormitory in Gryffindor Tower.

Ron's emotions were the easiest to see. He hid none of his dismay, his hurt and his anger towards Harry, and if left up to him they would have argued ferociously, got into a brawl, knocked five types of shit out of each other, collapsed bloody and broken on the floor, and arrived at a point where dialogue - and an explanation - would have been the only way forward. Ron played this scenario over and over in his head, always with the same ending: with Harry apologising wholeheartedly and with buckets of sincerity, saying that he, Harry, was totally to blame, that Ron was and always been his friend - how could he have been so blind? And then of course Ron would graciously forgive Harry (probably not immediately, but definitely by Christmas) and then they would be the rock-solid larking-about thick-as-thieves best mates they had been since they had met on the Hogwarts Express four and a bit years earlier.

But as Hermione so often told him: Ron, wake up; this has gone so far now that I cannot see such an easy way out. And unfortunately for Ron, Harry had obviously not read this particular script, because all Harry ever did was ignore him, as if the room were empty, as if Ron's voice were not audible on his frequency. Ron found this more hurtful and upsetting and infuriating than any number of insults and threats and nastiness. Seeing as Ron's plan was to goad Harry into some dreadful confrontation, a ghastly painful stalemate had been arrived at, where Ron was furious with himself for caring about it so much, and Harry just drifted in and out doing exactly as he pleased, not seeming the remotest bit bothered by the oceans of ill-feeling he had created.

Much of the rest of Gryffindor House felt the same as Ron to varying lesser degrees. The real crunch had come about two weeks after the Care of Magical Creatures lesson, which Hermione had identified as the point at which the rot had set in. Professor McGonagall had stormed up to the Gryffindor table at breakfast, and demanded to see Fred and George at once in her office. Oh dear, thought the body of Gryffindor house, rather amused, what on earth had they done now? But it was not at all what anybody suspected. About ten minutes later the twins reappeared at breakfast with a pair of identical looks on their identical faces, black as thunder. Oh God, thought Ron, they've been expelled. Ginny clutched his hand as Ron became spokesman for the now silent table.

'Fred? George? What's happened?' he asked, his voice soft, his mind running through a dozen wild possibilities. But nothing he considered came close to what they said.

'Harry Potter...' sputtered Fred.

'...has withdrawn from the Gryffindor Quidditch team,' finished George.

'McGonagall says we've got to find and train a new Seeker before the Hufflepuff match next week...'

'...so we've got to hold trials immediately. This evening in fact.'

There was an instant furor. Ron's anger found new intensity as he sat there and literally seethed with fury. Ginny was worried about him, in fact about all three of her brothers. Until that point, the dispute, if it could be called that, had seemed to be directly between Harry and Ron, with Hermione and Ginny drawn in as bystanders, but now, the whole house felt that his actions were aimed specifically at them. As Hermione and Ginny secretly discussed later, it was lucky for Harry that he was not at breakfast that morning. He might have been lynched, or worse. Looking at the outraged Weasleys at that moment, anything could have happened.

The occasion of the Hufflepuff match had been another turning point in Gryffindor Tower.

Fred and George selected Ron himself as the new Seeker, which was another torment to Ron. Should he accept the position knowing that the chance was only coming his way because Harry was 'not available' and worse still had been rather shamelessly given him by his own brothers, or should he rise to the occasion and think about the honour of his House?

It was Hermione who convinced him to take up the challenge, and he was glad he had listened to her. The week before the match he had practised and practised, with the twins drilling him in all sorts of manoeuvres until way after dark, all thoughts of Harry totally forgotten. And his skills were definitely improving. Sure, he was not Harry. Nobody flew like Harry did, with the ease and grace of a wheeling seabird, and nobody in the school other than Harry owned a Firebolt. But Ron had given it absolutely everything he had and then some, and it had nearly paid off. Lanky and ungainly as he was - and, riding a Cleansweep 6, hopelessly outpaced even by the Hufflepuffs - he had chased and spun and dodged and dived for all he was worth, and even though Hufflepuff won 170-80, Ron had been given a hero's reception back in the Tower.

Harry had not been at the match, and he was not present at the party in the Gryffindor common room, and for once Ron hadn't noticed. McGonagall had given him a broad smile and twenty points for sterling effort, and the House had toasted him with Butterbeer smuggled in by the twins, which had just about capped off a great day. But later in bed, hearing Harry move about in the soulless, vacant, anonymous manner in which he did everything now, Ron was deeply saddened to think that this moment, one of his best ever, had only happened because of Harry's own inexplicable behaviour; and yet despite Ron's fury with him, none of the congratulations he had received meant anything without a clap on the back from Harry himself. After the unbearable tension of the week preceding the Gryffindor v Hufflepuff match, Ron and Harry went back to the level of hostility they had reached before, which is to say that Ron went back to trying to provoke Harry into a fight while Harry remained oblivious to anything Ron did, said, thought or felt.

Hermione's feelings were much more complicated than Ron's. She had more reason to object to Harry's behaviour than Ron because not only was she having to deal with Harry ignoring her like he was everybody else, but she personally was having to pick up the pieces of the lives of the two most junior Weasleys that had been wrecked by whatever it was that had got hold of Harry.

She had been a tower of strength to Ron, always there for him, encouraging him in his Quidditch practice, comforting him when Harry's actions left Ron feeling lower than low, feeling furious with Harry on Ron's behalf. And, glory be, Ron had started to notice her.

Well, he could hardly not. They were in each other's company from breakfast to bedtime, and as Harry was absolutely no company at all, she had loved the time they had spent together, whatever the reasons behind it. And on the night of the Hufflepuff match, when Ron had been grinning and laughing like he hadn't for weeks, she felt a warmth developing between them that had a wonderfully right feel to it. He hadn't actually kissed her, or even looked like doing it, but he had just held her, not wanting to let go, hugging her for ages in relief that he hadn't embarrassed himself on his broom, wanting her by his side for the whole evening, wanting to share this mini-triumph with her. But Ginny had been harder to deal with. Hermione could offer no words of comfort to her at all, and over time worked out that the best thing for Ginny was simply to spend time her and Ron and the twins, where she felt at home and could try to forget Harry's inexplicable rudeness.

But behind all this Hermione was desperately worried about Harry, in a way that Ron wasn't. Hermione couldn't bring herself to try to antagonise him like Ron, moon over him like Ginny, or even write him off like the rest of the House. She knew that there was something fearfully the matter with him, but his utter refusal to let her anywhere near him meant she was incapable of trying to help. She knew, because she kept track of this type of thing, that Harry had attended only four meals in the last five weeks; even at the Halloween feast he had eaten next to nothing and stayed, sitting next to Neville but remaining silent, for just fifteen minutes. She also knew that he hadn't slept properly for the same length of time, and was losing weight at an alarming rate. She watched him silently in class, as he kept himself to himself, walking between classes speaking to nobody, arranging his books and quills without care on his desk, missing deadline after deadline on homework, losing untold house points in Potions because of inattention; as she watched him, she could see the bags under his eyes, the scared look on his face, the air of impenetrable loneliness that surrounded him like a fog. And she cried to herself sometimes as she looked at him, physically having to restrain herself from rushing up to him and hugging him and begging him to talk to her.

Oh God, Harry, how can I help if you won't let me near you?

The Quidditch thing had been the last straw. If there was one thing that Harry loved, it was flying. She had written to Sirius twice, but his replies had been noncommittal: just sit tight and try to put up with him, I am sure it will work out in the end. She had even been to see McGonagall, who had said more or less the same thing. On top of this, Hermione knew much more than Ron about what was troubling Harry, and her suspicions were beginning to weigh her down. She had done her thinking, spoken to Hagrid about fauns, read up everything she could think of that might be relevant, and she had arrived at the only conclusion possible. And then she had just hoped that it would go away. But it hadn't gone, and it wasn't going.

Soon, she thought. I am going to have to speak to Ron soon, or we may lose him forever.

Harry himself had hit rock bottom some weeks earlier. In his more clear-sighted moments he knew he had stuck rigidly to the plan he had worked out that morning by the lake, and although he couldn't judge its success or otherwise, he felt that as long as he stuck to his guns on this one, he was through the worst.

He was now no longer friends with Ron. Now, when he eventually had to reveal his secret, he would already have been through the pain of losing Ron. And fucking hell, what pain it had been. To see and hear Ron, face tearstained, begging him to tell Harry what he had done wrong, had very nearly broken him. But he had somehow managed to keep a cool exterior while his insides had been churning and mixing in shame and regret and self-disgust. And fuck did he miss him; it was like he had lost a limb. He had watched Ron from underneath the stands as he gave his all in the match against Hufflepuff and rejoiced in how well he'd done, thinking how proud he was of Ron and how much he wanted to congratulate him. And he had watched the growing closeness between Ron and Hermione with some pleasure, knowing that they would before long have each other and would not miss him. He had taken no pleasure in ignoring Ginny, but it had definitely worked, ok she hadn't actually started to look for anyone else yet, but it would surely only be a matter of time. Seamus and Dean didn't speak to him anymore, nor did Neville, which would now save him the humiliation of being tossed aside by them later.

But this kind of 'rational' thought belonged only to his clear-sighted moments. At other times, in fact by far the greater part of his life, he was drowning in a depression so deeply entrenched in him that he could go through whole days and remember nothing. He knew he wasn't eating; mealtimes were too painful, so every now and again he would go to the kitchens and brave Dobby's insufferable chatter to get something in his stomach, but he didn't have the mental strength for it very often. He had long forgotten what it felt like to sleep properly. Wracked by destructive insomnia, he wandered the castle and the grounds at night, the same desperate thoughts running in endless circles in his head until dawn, when he would then go through another meaningless day in a cloud of indifference. His physical appearance was now so wretched that he had stopped looking in mirrors completely. His grades were so poor McGonagall had had him in her office and fumed about her disappointment, but he couldn't even remember her words. Snape had deducted fifty house points for catching him wandering the grounds in the middle of the night, but he felt no shame or concern for house pride. And Hermione. She looked at him, all the time, forcing him to make eye contact with her, refusing to be pushed aside. She glared at his thin body, at his shabby appearance, at the bags under his eyes. And she knew. She knew.

The only bright spots in his life were with Sirius. They had met each Saturday at the Shrieking Shack since that first picnic they had had five or so weeks earlier, and gradually Sirius had begun to pick through the blackness of Harry's moods and tried to coax out of him the cancer that was rotting away his insides. Harry found the anticipation of his meetings with his godfather far better that the actuality of having to dodge questions and fake answers, but still he wouldn't be without these days, whatever the personal risk to Sirius. Each week was the same. Sirius would Apparate right into the Shack, and they would share some food while Harry talked, sometimes nonstop, always about nothing, but talking all the same. Sometimes he went whole days without uttering a single word to anybody, once an entire week; and to be able to talk about anything at all felt like the life flooding back into him. But then Sirius would begin his 'therapy', encouraging Harry to talk about what was bothering him, about why Ron and Hermione never came with him, about why Sirius received regular owls from Dumbledore about Harry's well-being.

But no way could Harry ever tell him what, and who, was on his mind every waking minute of his life.

He couldn't tell him that he wandered the grounds in the middle of the night with only one thought on his mind.

He couldn't tell him that part of his very soul was being eaten away by a desire that he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge.

He couldn't tell him that he was so afraid of what his friends - his family - would think of him that he had pushed them away for fear of rejection.

And he surely couldn't tell him that he tried to restrain from pleasuring himself for fear of the image his subconscious would conjure, and yet sometimes the desire became so strong, so irresistible, that he would find himself masturbating in a desperate frenzy with the singular aim of glimpsing exactly what, or rather who, he was going to extraordinary lengths to deny the very existence of.

Oh God no. He couldn't tell him any of that.

So Harry would clam up, bitterly resenting the interference, until they would eventually part sadly, both knowing that they would go through the same things next week, Harry knowing that it was the only thing he had to look forward to.

The Saturday in mid November after the weather swung round from the north, they met in the same way for the sixth time, and true to form, the same things happened. But this time Sirius decided he couldn't ignore the overwhelmingly obvious any longer. Harry was ill. Dangerously low, malnourished, utterly exhausted. After failing to persuade Harry even to go and get a sleeping draught from Madam Pomfrey, he arranged to see him the same time the following week, hugged him warmly goodbye, then delved into his robes for some parchment and a quill.

He wrote quickly and succinctly - Please do something. I am terribly worried. Sirius - then began the tricky operation of transforming into Padfoot, going into Hogsmeade, sneaking into the Owlery at the Post Office, changing back into Sirius and dispatching an owl to Dumbledore.

* * *

Unnoticed by most of the school, but not all, another boy was in trouble.

Draco's state of mind had not been as publicly discussed as Harry's but that was only because Draco was doing his best to make sure nothing was obvious. But to the few that thought they were close to him, it was impossible not to know that something was tearing him apart. Crabbe and Goyle sensed it - how could they not? - he hadn't entered into any pranks and tricks against the Gryffindors for weeks. Draco sighed. Pansy noticed it, simpering little bitch, and was constantly asking how he was and what she could do to help.

And, Granger noticed. She watched him like a hawk, ever since that day in the library that they had squabbled over that French book about fauns. She knew, without a doubt. Draco wondered all the time whether she had spoken to Potter about it, but decided not. Everyone in the school knew that Potter hadn't spoken to anybody for weeks, not even Granger, not even his brother-in-arms Weasley. But even so, why hadn't Granger acted on her knowledge? So in this horribly unsure situation, Draco kept up appearances. He strutted in the corridors. He made snide remarks in class. He held court at supper at the Slytherin table. But it wasn't him any more.

Whereas Harry's angst and denial had resulted in serious depression and insomnia, Draco's mind dealt with everything in cold clear reality. He had seen the dreadful state that Harry had sunk to, and felt contemptuous of him. Well, sometimes there was contempt. Other times there was...compassion. And understanding. And affection? And underlying all these things, there was attraction.

It was now undeniable.

Draco had had ample opportunity to study Harry's decline because he inexplicably felt better when he could see Harry, and so he watched him as much as he could. He would sit behind him in class, so he could stare at the messy hair and the robed back; at mealtimes he would sit in such a position so that if ever Harry made one of his very rare visits to the Great Hall, he would be able to see him; and every night he crept around and outside the castle until he spotted him, walking, walking, walking.

Draco would sit somewhere he could watch him, pacing the Quidditch pitch in the starlight or clambering over rocks around the lake with his wand lighting the way, grateful for the moments of relative peace that the sight of Harry would afford him, but detesting the necessity for his actions. He often wondered why it was that Harry did not seem to be able to gain the same strength from him as Draco did from Harry. He must have just willed me out of existence, he thought. If he's denied me away to nothing, then he wouldn't ever think to look at me, so he may never have discovered. After all, he hasn't actually looked at anyone for weeks. It was at these moments that he felt closest to Harry, and felt an enormous sorrow at the sight of a boy gripped by such dreadful misery. One day, thought Draco, I am going to have to drag you out of that depression, before...oh fuck no, not that. You wouldn't be that stupid, would you, Potter? You bloody better not.

And in fact, now it wasn't inexplicable why the nearness of him affected him in this way. He knew what the matter was. He knew what was happening, what had happened. He felt awed by it and furious with it, but sort of relieved as well. There was only one way forward, and even though the idea of it was unimaginable, he at least knew that there was a way he could feel better.

But at what cost?

At best it would mean the beginning of something horribly unknown; at worst, unspeakable humiliation, devastating rejection and the end of everything he had so far ever been part of. Oh God. Hold on, Draco. There has to be a way to make this easier. Here we are, two people, caught in the same mess. One arrogant, one stubborn; but both so fiercely independent that it's surely a nonstarter from the off. But Potter, he thought, if we don't do something soon, then I am going to go mad, and you, you're so unstable at the moment you might, you might...his thoughts trailed off. He couldn't entertain the possibility.

It was unthinkable.

* * *

On Saturdays, there were no lessons, which was just as well, because Seamus and Dean were well behind with their work, and the weekends offered them a chance to catch up. They didn't often take that chance though, and this Saturday was no exception.

'Where is it? Quick, where the fuck is it?' hissed Seamus as Dean was rifling through Harry's trunk. 'Come on, he could be back at any minute!'

'I don't know! It's not here, he must have hidden it somewhere else.'

'There is nowhere else. We've looked everywhere. It's got to be in there. Get out of the way and let me have a look.'

Seamus pushed Dean aside and delved into Harry's trunk, right to the bottom. It felt like an extraordinary invasion of privacy - hell, it was an extraordinary invasion of privacy - but he and Dean had now given up waiting for the mood in the Tower to lighten sufficiently for them to be able to ask Harry directly if they could borrow it. And he surely wouldn't mind: if he had been actually talking to them he was bound to say yes, he'd never denied them anything before. Shaky logic to be sure, but Seamus was now more or less convinced by it. His hand lighted on what he was looking for: a small, slim volume, handmade and bound in leather. He pulled out The Boys Book of Spells (Special Edition) and looked at it.

'Got it!' whooped Seamus.

He grinned madly and Dean laughed. 'Let's see!'

Seamus opened the book. They both crowded over it and Seamus flipped through until he found what they were looking for: Charlie Weasley's spell from Romania. 'Ha!' crowed Seamus. 'Me first!'

'No way, you Irish git. I opened the trunk. My privilege.'

'Yeah but I found it, you perv. Shove off and give me half an hour.'

'Half an hour! You don't need half an hour. Never taken you that long before, with your crappy technique. If you want half an hour, I'm definitely going first. Ten minutes and then you can have the book for as long as you want.'

'Ten minutes!' Seamus was laughing his head off. 'Ten minutes!!! You amateur! How old are you Dean? You really only want ten minutes?'

'Well, maybe fifteen,' said Dean, laughing as much as Seamus, and trying to wrest the book out of Seamus's hands. He managed to grab hold of it and pulled it hard, and the two boys - both laughing yet unwilling to give up the book - fell into a heap as they squabbled over it.

'Give it up, Deano you tosser!'

'Hey let go or...'

The sound of the book ripping in half tore through the room and silenced both boys, who stared at each other with the look of someone suddenly caught in a highly compromising position.

'Oh shit,' they both said softly.

As a single page fluttered slowly to the floor, the door opened. The piece of parchment drifted to a halt at Harry's feet.

'Oh shit,' they both said softly.

Harry stooped down and picked up the page, then walked over to Seamus and Dean. They remained in their rather awkward heap on the floor as they each silently passed him one half of the book. Harry held all the parts of the book in his left hand and tapped them with his wand, cleared his throat and muttered Reparo. The book miraculously rebound itself in a sudden whipping of paper and thread. Harry walked over to his trunk, dropped the book back inside and then knelt down and whispered an incantation over it, so softly that neither Seamus nor Dean could make out which locking spell he had used. There was a difficult uneasiness as the two boys stood and all three of them faced each other.

'Why didn't you just ask?' said Harry without emotion.

'Because, Harry, you haven't spoken to us for six weeks,' said Seamus boldly.

'So then what made you think you had the right to go though my things?' came Harry's response, just as blandly as before.

'Because, we thought, well, I thought, that had we been speaking, you would have said yes. But as we weren't speaking, you couldn't say either yes or no. So, I kind of took the yes as unspoken, and convinced Dean. Like, you know, as if you'd been away on holiday and we wanted to borrow something', said Seamus, aware that his thinking seemed much more dubious when it was voiced aloud.

'Besides', said Dean, 'it's not as if it's secret. We know what's in the book. We wrote it, if you remember...'

'Yes', said Harry, his eyes itching, 'I remember of course. It was a present, when...' he trailed off.

'When... when we were all mates, Harry,' ventured Seamus. 'When in fact you were one of the best mates any lad could ask for. When Neville and us used to enjoy your company better than anyone's. And when Ron used to get encouragement and energy and love from being your mate. Now he just seethes and storms and, when it gets too much, goes and cries on Hermione's shoulder. But you wouldn't know that, Harry, because you don't speak to us any more. And you don't care.'

Harry was silent for some time. The meeting with Sirius from which he was just returned had been emotionally draining enough, and he did not want to be in the company of Seamus and Dean at all. He should just walk away. But he couldn't. Something was tugging at him inside. He hated to think that Seamus and Dean thought he didn't care about them. The words formed themselves on his lips without his really being aware of them.

'But I do care, Seamus,' he said eventually, almost inaudibly, and a single tear leaked from his right eye. He brushed it away hastily, lest they should see this sign of weakness. 'I never stopped caring about all of you, it's just, I can't be that Harry any more...'

Seamus leaned over and gently touched Harry on the shoulder. He mouthed 'Go and get Ron' to Dean, who left the room swiftly and quietly.

'So why, Harry,' he continued, 'have you been behaving like a total bastard?'

* * *

The owl arrived at Dumbledore's office not ten minutes after Sirius had dispatched it. A clever and eager tawny, it was always delighted to get a job that meant going up the school, and to get to go to the head man himself, that was indeed an honour. Dumbledore looked up from his desk as he heard the tapping on the window, and the grateful owl fluttered around the room, showing off slightly, after he had let it in.

'Come here, little one', smiled Dumbledore, 'let's see what news you bring.'

The owl landed lightly on Dumbledore's wrist and offered him the note, gratefully accepting a small treat that the old man held out for him. Then as he read the scribbled message, and let the lively owl back out of the window, his face turned thoughtful.

'What is it, Headmaster?' asked Snape, his oily voice managing to find a modicum of concern. 'Something serious?'

'Perhaps, yes perhaps, Severus. Tell me, how is Draco Malfoy?'

Snape was mildly taken aback. 'Is that connected with this note?'

Dumbledore paused, politely waiting for his original question to be answered.

'Different. Quiet. Putting energy into work. Moody. Insomniac as well I think. Generally adolescent. Why?'

'How do you know he's suffering from insomnia?'

'I have seen him around the castle at night. In the grounds sometimes as well.'

'Really? I don't recall any house point deductions for that misdemeanour in respect of Mr Malfoy. There was recently a fifty point penalty for Mr Potter for the same crime, though, if I recall...'

Snape shuffled uneasily but Dumbledore, having made his point, did not leave Snape to wallow in discomfort, and continued more or less immediately.

'So. Generally adolescent.'

Dumbledore let the words hang in the air as he picked up the Orbis from his desk and watched the tiny fireflies reflect the intensity of feeling that surrounded Harry and Draco. He turned to McGonagall.

'Minerva, what about Harry. How is he coping?'

'He is not, Albus. He is undernourished, exhausted, depressed and despairing. Crippled by insecurity and insomnia. Dangerously low, and unstable. I am desperately worried. We must do something.'

'That is more or less what this note from Sirius says'.

'Sirius? Sirius Black?' snorted Snape. 'How long has he been around again?'

'Ever since this current business between young Potter and Malfoy was brought to my attention'. Dumbledore fingered the Orbis again. 'He is helping at my invitation, Severus.'

'What business between Potter and Malfoy?' grimaced Snape, trying to hide his curiosity.

'Severus, are you blind?' McGonagall's voice had a hard edge. 'Harry has hardly been himself for five or six weeks or so. He does not speak to anybody in the school. The only conversation he gets is once a week with his godfather. He has not eaten nor slept for weeks. Honestly, Severus, you teach him as often as I do. Have you not noticed?'

'I do not pay any attention to the behaviour of my students outside my classes. Their adolescent adjustments are not my business as their potions teacher.'

Dumbledore watched the squabbling between his two most senior members of staff, thought about interjecting to stop it, but then sat back with the Orbis and decided to let it run its course.

'Adolescent adjustments? And you a Head of House, Severus. If you had any care for your students you would have noticed that both Potter and Malfoy are in the grip of something that neither of them can handle. Malfoy is better at hiding it, that's all. And I object most strongly to the fifty point deduction you imposed upon Potter. His housemates should not be made to suffer for this, especially as Potter is doing all he can to cope, in his own way that is. I have seen both Potter and Malfoy out around the castle night after night, and notice Severus that I have never penalised Malfoy in this way.'

'Presumably because it's difficult to punish students while you're in feline form, Minerva.'

Snape had a distrust of Animagi that he had never been able to overcome. But his comment riled McGonagall to an extent that he had not anticipated.

'The difference between you and I, Severus, is that although I do often, and especially recently, go out at night around the castle as a cat, I do so for two particular reasons. One, I am extremely concerned about Harry and I find it easier to check he is all right if I can follow him closely. Two, the other cats in the castle nearly always witness everything and are a good source of news; indeed Mrs Norris and Granger's cat Crookshanks are excellent colleagues in this respect. Whereas you, Severus, patrol the corridors so you can penalise. And only penalise non-Slytherins, at that.'

'Perhaps if you had let me know of whatever this impending crisis is...'

'Case conference!' cried Dumbledore, 'is that what they call it? You're right, Minerva. Can't leave it alone any more; I'm worried about both of them. The three of us, Sirius Black, Poppy Pomfrey, my office, tomorrow morning at ten. I will owl Sirius immediately. Minerva, please bring Severus up to date with this whole business.'

Dumbledore smiled benignly at both of them and the meeting, it seemed, was over.

* * *

Dean rushed down to the common room and found Ron and Hermione talking quietly in a corner with Neville.

'Ron, upstairs, quick,' said Dean quietly, so as not to let the rest of the common room hear. 'It looks like... maybe Harry has begun to talk. He's with Seamus now.'

'And why should I go rushing off at the first moment that Harry summons me? Fucking hell Dean, I've spent enough time waiting around for him.'

'OK Ron, it's your call. But, it's not like that. Harry hasn't summoned you. It's just that Seamus seems to have finally made some connection with him, and he thought that you might like to be there. Harry doesn't even know I've come to get you.'

Hermione gripped Ron's hand, whether out of her own hope, or happiness, or relief, or Ron's, she didn't know. Ron spoke to the group.

'OK. Let's hear what he's got to say.'

But as they all trooped over to the stairs, Harry came down them, avoided all their eyes, and left the common room. Seamus appeared straight after him, and watched Harry exit the room.

'Sorry team', said Seamus sadly, 'thought he was going to talk. But he just clammed up and left, true to form.'

'Right', said Hermione, taking charge. 'Case conference. We need to talk, and I'll start. Boys' Dorm, five minutes. Neville, find Ginny; Ron, Seamus, how about a trip to Dobby to get us some snacks to see us through?'

'Sure', said Ron. 'Herm, do you know what this is all about?'

'I'm afraid I think I do, yes.'

* * *

Saturdays were always harder than the regular days of the week.

Without the distraction of lessons, Draco was left to stew for hours at a time. And lying on his bed in the Slytherin fifth year boys' dormitory that Saturday morning after the weather turned, Draco was certainly stewing. As far as these things were quantifiable, he was feeling worse than usual, although 'worse than usual' had ceased to have any real meaning since 'usual' itself had become 'intolerable' some weeks previously.

And as Draco was caught in the same emotional vortex that he was every day - a cycle of psychological need and denial that Draco would analyse and understand then try to refute - his responses were also the same every day, to the point that he knew how long he would stew for, at what point he would decide that he could not tolerate the dormitory any more, where he would begin his search for Potter, and in which order he would scour the castle and grounds until he found him. And then he would watch him from afar, the sight of him easing the need a little, but highlighting the denial, until the sight of Harry would no longer be any comfort, because all it did was tell him that he wanted more than the sight of him. And that morning Draco was just reaching the point at which he would stop stewing and go searching, when he suddenly thought fuck it and decided to try something else that day.

He brushed his hair, using his wand with a styling charm to create just the kind of floppy blond sexiness he knew would turn heads, cleaned his teeth and put on a smart bottle green cashmere sweater his mother had sent him, together with some snug fitting black moleskin jeans and a pair of dragonhide boots. He swirled his heaviest black winter cloak around his shoulders and left the dormitory with a purposeful stride, enjoying the masculine thud of his boots on the stone floors, and increased his walking speed until the cloak billowed behind him pleasingly. One of the large mirrors in Slytherin house told him all he needed to know: he looked dashing, charming, stylish, irresistible. Yes, hopefully irresistible. The mirror whistled her approval softly, and the inner enjoyment he got from the whistle seeped through to an outer smile, and Draco found himself using facial muscles he had forgotten he had. The very act of using these muscles seemed to make him smile wider, and at the next mirror he caught sight of a young man he almost didn't recognise. Fuck, you look good Malfoy, he thought, nearly voicing it aloud.

'Ooh, Draco, who's the lucky girl?' cooed Pansy as he swept through the common room on his way out to the grounds.

'Not you babe,' he said, emphasising the bass in his voice to give the common room's fleeting image of him a few extra ounces of sexiness. 'In fact, not any girl at all,' he continued under his breath as he left the room.

* * *

Shit, that had been close.

He had almost cracked when talking to Seamus. Somehow Seamus had just got under his skin enough to begin to coax him away from his plan, but luckily he had managed to force himself to leave before that happened. And good thing too, because it had looked like Ron and the others were just on their way upstairs, and he knew he would not have had the strength to resist all of them together. Especially Ron.

Harry always found the time on a Saturday after he had spoken with Sirius the most difficult time of the week to fill, a time when he found it even more stressful being around the others. So after leaving Seamus in the dormitory he naturally headed out to the lake where one spot on the far side had become a favourite place to sit and think in solitude. Solitude was a funny thing. You could live in it all week, avoiding contact with people and dodging difficult situations, but it was only when you actually were geographically displaced from those same people and situations that real solitude kicked in. And Harry had found that he liked such solitude, for some quite revealing reasons.

However much Harry acknowledged to himself that the acute depression he was suffering was real, and however much he knew that to ignore it was potentially dangerous, he seemed to gain a dark sense of enjoyment and satisfaction from allowing himself to descend into ever-deeper pits of despair. Like, to walk close to the edge of a cliff, to flirt with danger itself was on some level exciting, exhilarating. And sometimes when he was out by the lake, either at the weekends during the day, or in the week at night, Harry used such solitude as the location afforded to let him contemplate his own mortality. As he stared into the dark deep icy waters of the lake he let himself sit on the edge of life and death itself, knowing that just one moment of bravery could see him arc gracefully into the depths and not be troubled by the whole business of being in love with Malfoy again. It had become a delicious, addictive sensation: to flirt with the ultimate danger, to allow the depression to gain so great a hold that such an act seemed logical. And even though Harry was aware that it was only the depression that made him feel this way, and that this issue was not important enough to die for, he also knew that it was only in these moments of pure solitude, when he allowed his mind to think these unthinkable thoughts, that he felt truly alive - alive in the same way that he used to feel when he was wheeling in great free circles on his Firebolt.

And as so often in the recent past, Harry sat among the rocks on the far side of the lake, looking at the castle, and at the mountains and forests beyond, and staring deep into the eternity of the water, and thinking of Malfoy, about what he would love to say to him, and what he would love to do with him, if only he and Malfoy were different people and the world were a different place. It was bitterly cold, but rather than huddle his cloak closer to him and get lower into the rocks, Harry forced himself to stop shivering and tried to allow his body temperature to drop accordingly so that he did not notice the cold. The first few flakes of snow of the winter swirled around his head and began to fall silently into the lake, each flake landing gently on the surface of the water and effortlessly becoming one with its alluring darkness. Time ceased to have any meaning. There was just the snow, and the cold, and the water, and Malfoy.

'Hello Potter.' The voice came from behind him, and forced Harry's mind to drift back to the here and now. Even so, it was some moments before he could place the voice.

'Hello Malfoy,' said Harry, without turning around. 'What are you doing out here?'

Harry noticed that there was no leap of joy in his heart, nor any surge of hatred.

'I was just out taking a stroll and saw you sitting here,' came Malfoy's response. 'Do you mind if I sit down?'

Harry turned round and looked at him. He looked beyond beautiful, his clothes, his face, his teeth, the snow settling in his perfect hair.

'If you like,' said Harry. 'But why do you want to?'

'I'm not sure, to be honest,' said Draco brushing the snow off a rock a little distance away from Harry. 'Maybe because I've seen you sitting here before, and it looks a good spot'.

Draco sat down and there was silence for a little while. Harry felt slightly edgy. What on earth is he doing here? Why is he being civil? Is he trying to trick me into something? But he can't be, because he can't possibly know what I think about him...Oh God why is he here, in my own place, ridiculing me in my own peace?

What is he thinking about? thought Draco. Has he really no idea what I think about him? But despite this slight anxiety, Draco felt better than he had for weeks, being as close to Harry as he was then, even bearing in mind the temperature.

'Would you like one of these?' Draco's voiced seemed louder than necessary coming after several minutes of nothing. Harry looked at him; he was holding a packet of cigarettes.

'Malfoy, why are you being nice to me?'

'Would you prefer it if I were rude?'

'At least I would know where I stood.'

'Hmmm, it's difficult not knowing where you stand isn't it?'

Harry did not really know what to make of this exchange and didn't reply, but Draco was still holding out the packet of cigarettes. 'So, would you like one or not?'

'I don't know. I've never had one before. They say they kill you.'

'Yeah I know, I kinda like that about them.'

'OK'. Harry took one. 'What do I do?'

'Just suck gently while I light the end. You'll probably cough at first, but it gets better.'

Harry held the cigarette to his lips and Draco took out, not his wand, but a bronze Zippo cigarette lighter that he flipped open expertly and struck to produce a bright dancing flame which he held close to Harry's face. Harry dipped the end of the cigarette into the fire and duly coughed a little.

'I don't think I've done it right,' said Harry.

'Here, it's not lit properly. Let me.' Draco took the cigarette from Harry and held it to his own lips, lit it, then passed it back to Harry. It was an astonishingly intimate gesture, but neither boy noticed any unease in the other. Draco lit his own, watching Harry. Harry thought that the cigarette tasted hot and smoky, but not unpleasant.

'Are you a regular smoker? I thought it was a Muggle habit,' ventured Harry after another short silence.

'It is mainly; well, cigarettes are at least. Lots of old wizards have pipes though. And no, I'm hardly a hardened smoker. I've had' - he looked into the packet and counted the remainder - 'eight in my whole life. No, just seven; you've had that one of course.'

'Blimey,' said Harry a few moments later, 'I feel slightly lightheaded.'

'Yeah', said Draco. 'Nice, isn't it? Nicotine is a relaxant or something. Good for creating a few stress-free moments. Not easy to do it in the castle though. Have to get outside. Outside is better though, a lot of the time, even without a cigarette. I notice you are often out in the grounds.'

'I like it out here. Fewer people. Sometimes I come out at night. Actually, most nights. It's beautiful out here in the moonlight.'

'Hmmm, I know.'

Exactly what Draco knew, whether he knew about Harry coming out at night, or whether Draco himself knew how beautiful it was, Harry didn't ask. He didn't feel he needed to. He was feeling more and more relaxed as the minutes ticked by, but whether it was the cigarette, or Draco's presence, he wasn't sure. He looked out over the lake again, and stubbed his cigarette out on a rock. Still looking away from Draco, Harry spoke again.

'Well, this is a first. Two firsts in fact: a cigarette and a conversation with you.'

'Yes. Strange eh?' Draco stubbed out his own cigarette. 'And not at all disagreeable. Neither the cigarette nor the conversation.' He watched Harry looking out over towards the castle. 'Anyway. It's cold. I'm going in. Don't stay too long, you'll freeze.' Draco stood up.

Harry turned to face him. 'OK. Thanks, Malfoy.'

'Thanks, Potter.' Draco shook the snow from his hair, pulled his cloak in and walked away.

Harry went back to looking out over the lake, and he watched Draco's progress on the walk back to the castle. He felt relaxed and at ease, and he hadn't felt that for a very long time.